T 

.    LETTERS 
TO    VARIOUS     PERSONS 


BY 


HENRY    D.    THOREAU, 

AUTHOR   OF    "A   WEEK   ON    THE   CONCORD    AND   MERRIMACK   RIVERS,' 
"WALDEN,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


BOSTON : 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS 
1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGEXOW,  &  Co. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


r  o 


EDITOR'S     NOTICE. 


IT  may  interest  the  reader  of  this  book  to 
know  that  nearly  all  these  letters  have  been 
printed  directly  from  the  original  autographs  fur 
nished  by  the  persons  to  whom  they  were  ad 
dressed.  A  few  have  been  carefully  copied,  but 
without  alteration,  from  the  worn  and  torn  origi 
nals.  In  some  letters,  passages  have  been  omit 
ted  on  account  of  private  or  personal  references. 
Otherwise,  the  letters  have  been  printed  as  they 
stood,  with  very  few  verbal  corrections. 

R.  W.  E. 

12  May,  1865. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGH 
LETTERS      1 

POEMS. 

SYMPATHY    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .211 

"ROMANS,  COUNTRYMEN,  AND  LOVERS"  .         .  214 

INSPIRATION 218 

THE  FISHER'S  BOY 220 

MOUNTAINS 221 

SMOKE 225 

SMOKE  IN  WINTER       ......  226 

MIST 228 

HAZE    .  229 


LETTERS. 


TO   MISS   THOREAU. 

CONCORD,  June  13,  1840. 

DEARH :  — 

That   letter   to   J ,  for  which  you  had  an 

opportunity  doubtless  to  substitute  a  more  perfect 
communication,  fell,  as  was  natural,  into  the  hands 
of  his  "  transcendental  brother,"  who  is  his  proxy  in 
such  cases,  having  been  commissioned  to  acknowl 
edge  and  receipt  all  bills  that  may  be  presented. 
But  what 's  in  a  name  ?  Perhaps  it  does  not  mat 
ter  whether  it  be  John  or  Henry.  Nor  will  those 
same  six  months  have  to  be  altered,  I  fear,  to  suit 
his  case  as  well.  But  methinks  they  have  not 
passed  entirely  without  intercourse,  provided  we 
have  been  sincere  though  humble  worshippers  of 
the  same  virtue  in  the  mean  time.  Certainly  it  is 
better  that  we  should  make  ourselves  quite  sure  of 
such  a  communion  as  this  by  the  only  course  which 
is  completely  free  from  suspicion,  —  the  coincidence 
of  two  earnest  and  aspiring  lives,  —  than  run  the 
risk  of  a  disappointment  by  relying  wholly  or 
chiefly  on  so  meagre  and  uncertain  a  means  as 
I  A 


2  LETTERS. 

speech,  whether  written  or  spoken,  affords.  How 
often,  when  we  have  been  nearest  each  other 
bodily,  have  we  really  been  farthest  oif !  Our 
tongues  were  the  withy  foils  with  which  we  fenced 
each  other  off.  Not  that  we  have  not  met  heartily 
and  with  profit  as  members  of  one  family,  but  it 
was  a  small  one  surely,  and  not  that  other  human 
family.  We  have  met  frankly  and  without  con 
cealment  ever,  as  befits  those  who  have  an  instinc 
tive  trust  in  one  another,  and  the  scenery  of  whose 
outward  lives  has  been  the  same,  but  never  as, 
prompted  by  an  earnest  and  affectionate  desire  to 
probe  deeper  our  mutual  natures.  Such  inter 
course,  at  least,  if  it  has  ever  been,  has  not  conde 
scended  to  the  vulgarities  of  oral  communication, 
for  the  ears  are  provided  with  no  lid  as  the  eye  is, 
and  would  not  have  been  deaf  to  it  in  sleep.  And 
now  glad  am  I,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  in  imagining 
that  some  such  transcendental  inquisitiveness  has 
travelled  post  thither,  —  for,  as  I  observed  before, 
where  the  bolt  hits,  thither  was  it  aimed,  —  any 
arbitrary  direction  notwithstanding. 

Thus  much,  at  least,  our  kindred  temperament 
of  mind  and  body  —  and  long  family-arity  —  have 
done  for  us,  that  we  already  find  ourselves  stand 
ing  on  a  solid  and  natural  footing  with  respect  to 
one  another,  and  shall  not  have  to  waste  time  in 
the  so  often  unavailing  endeavor  to  arrive  fairly  at 
this  simple  ground. 

Let  us  leave  trifles,  then,  to  accident ;  and  poll- 


LETTERS.  3 

tics,  and  finance,  and  such  gossip,  to  the  moments 
when  diet  and  exercise  are  cared  for,  and  speak  to 
each  other  deliberately  as  out  of  one  infinity  into 
another,  —  you  there  in  time  and  space,  and  I 
here.  For  beside  this  relation,  all  books  and  doc 
trines  are  no  better  than  gossip  or  the  turning  of  a 
spit. 

Equally  to  you  and  S ,  from 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MRS.  BROWN. 

CONCORD,  July  21,  1841. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

Don't  think  I  need  any  prompting  to  write  to 
you ;  but  what  tough  earthenware  shall  I  put  in 
to  my  packet  to  travel  over  so  many  hills,  and 
thrid  so  many  woods,  as  lie  between  Concord 
and  Plymouth  ?  Thank  fortune  it  is  all  the  way 
down  hill,  so  they  will  get  safely  carried  ;  and  yet 
it  seems  as  if  it  were  writing  against  time  and  the 
sun,  to  send  a  letter  east,  for  no  natural  force  for 
wards  it.  You  should  go  dwell  in  the  west,  and 
then  I  would  deluge  you  with  letters,  as  boys 
throw  feathers  into  the  air  to  see  the  wind  take 
them.  I  should  rather  fancy  you  at  evening 
dwelling  far  away  behind  the  serene  curtain  of 


4  LETTERS. 

the  west,  —  the  home  of  fair  weather,  —  than  over 
by  the  chilly  sources  of  the  east  wind. 

What  quiet  thoughts  have  you  now-a-days 
which  will  float  on  that  east  wind  to  west,  for  so 
we  may  make  our  worst  servants  our  carriers,  — 
what  progress  made  from  can't  to  can,  in  practice 
and  theory  ?  Under  this  category,  you  remem 
ber,  we  used  to  place  all  our  philosophy.  Do  you 
have  any  still,  startling,  well  moments,  in  which 
you  think  grandly,  and  speak  with  emphasis  ? 
Don't  take  this  for  sarcasm,  for  not  in  a  year  of 
the  gods,  I  fear,  will  such  a  golden  approach  to 
plain  speaking  revolve  again.  But  away  with 
such  fears  ;  by  a  few  miles  of  travel,  wre  have  not 
distanced  each  other's  sincerity. 

I  grow  savager  and  savager  every  day,  as  if 
fed  on  raw  meat,  and  my  tameness  is  only  the 
repose  of  untamableness.  I  dream  of  looking 
abroad  summer  and  winter,  with  free  gaze,  from 
some  mountain-side,  while  my  eyes  revolve  in  an 
Egyptian  slime  of  health,  —  I  to  be  nature  looking 
into  nature,  with  such  easy  sympathy  as  the  blue- 
eyed  grass  in  the  meadow  looks  in  the  face  of  the 
sky.  From  some  such  recess  I  would  put  forth 
sublime  thoughts  daily,  as  the  plant  puts  forth 
leaves.  Now-a-nights  I  go  on  to  the  hill  to  see 
the  sun  set,  as  one  would  go  home  at  evening,  — 
the  bustle  of  the  village  has  run  on  all  day,  and 
left  me  quite  in  the  rear  ;  but  I  see  the  sunset, 
and  find  that  it  can  wait  for  my  slow  virtue. 


LETTERS.  5 

But  I  forget  that  you  think  more  of  this  human 
nature  than  of  this  nature  I  praise.  Why  won't 
you  believe  that  mine  is  more  human  than  any 
single  man  or  woman  can  be  ?  that  in  it,  —  in  the 
sunset  there,  are  all  the  qualities  that  can  adorn 
a  household,  —  and  that  sometimes  in  a  flutter 
ing  leaf,  one  may  hear  all  your  Christianity 
preached. 

You  see  how  unskilful  a  letter- writer  I  am, 
thus  to  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  sheet,  when 
hardly  arrived  at  the  beginning  of  my  story.  I 
was  going  to  be  soberer,  I  assure  you,  but  now 
have  only  room  to  add,  —  that  if  the  fates  allot 
you  a  serene  hour,  don't  fail  to  communicate 
some  of  its  serenity  to  your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 

No,  no.  Improve  so  rare  a  gift  for  yourself, 
and  send  me  of  your  leisure. 


TO  MRS.  L.  C.  B. 

COXCORD,  Wednesday  Evening, 
September  8  [1841]. 

DEAR  FRIEXD  :  — 

Your  note  came  wafted  to  (my  hand,  like  the 
first  leaf  of  the  Fall  on  the  September  wind,  and 
I  put  only  another  interpretation  upon  its  lines, 


6  LETTERS. 

than  upon  the  veins  of  those  which  are  soon  to 
be  strewed  around  me.  It  is  nothing  but  Indian 
Summer  here  at  present.  I  mean  that  any  weather 
seems  reserved  expressly  for  our  late  purposes, 
whenever  we  happen  to  be  fulfilling  them.  I  do 
not  know  what  right  I  have  to  so  much  happiness, 
but  rather  hold  it  in  reserve  till  the  time  of  my 
desert. 

What  with  the  crickets,  and  the  lowing  of  kine, 
and  the  crowing  of  cocks,  our  Concord  life  is  sono 
rous  enough.  Sometimes  I  hear  the  cock  bestir 
himself  on  his  perch  under  my  feet  and  crow 
shrilly  long  before  dawn,  and  I  think  I  might 
have  been  born  any  year  for  all  the  phenomena  I 
know. 

We  count  sixteen  eggs  daily  now,  when  arith 
metic  will  only  fetch  the  hens  up  to  thirteen  ;  but 
the  world  is  young,  and  we  wait  to  see  this  eccen 
tricity  complete  its  period. 

My  verses  on  Friendship  are  already  printed 
in  the  Dial,  not  expanded,  but  reduced  to  com 
pleteness,  by  leaving  out  the  long  lines,  which 
always  have,  or  should  have,  a  longer,  or  at  least 
another  sense  than  short  ones. 

Just  now  I  am  in  the  mid-sea  of  verses,  and  they 
actually  rustle  round  me,  as  the  leaves  would  round 
the  head  of  Autumnus  himself,  should  he  thrust 
it  up  through  some  vales  which  I  know,  but,  alas ! 
many  of  them  are  but  crisped  and  yellow  leaves 
like  his,  I  fear,  and  will  deserve  no  better  fate  than 


LETTERS.  7 

to  make  mould  for  new  harvests.  I  see  the  stanza 
rise  around  me,  verse  upon  verse,  far  and  near, 
like  the  mountains  from  Agiochook,  not  all  hav 
ing  a  terrestrial  existence  as  yet,  even  as  some  of 
them  may  be  clouds  ;  but  I  fancy  I  see  the  gleam 
of  some  Sebago  Lake  and  silver  cascade,  at  whose 
well  I  may  drink  one  day.  I  am  as  unfit  for 
any  practical  purpose  —  I  mean  for  the  further 
ance  of  the  world's  ends  —  as  gossamer  for  ship- 
timber  ;  and  I,  who  am  going  to  be  a  pencil-maker 
to-morrow,  can  sympathize  with  God  Apollo,  who 
served  King  Admetus  for  a  while  on  earth.  But 
I  believe  he  found  it  for  his  advantage  at  last,  — 
as  I  am  sure  I  shall,  though  I  shall  hold  the  no 
bler  part  at  least  out  of  the  service. 

Don't  attach  any  undue  seriousness  to  this 
threnody,  for  I  love  my  fate  to  the  very  core  and 
rind,  and  could  swallow  it  without  paring  it,  I 
think.  You  ask  if  I  have  written  any  more 
poems  ?  Excepting  those  which  Vulcan  is  now 
forging,  I  have  only  discharged  a  few  more  bolts 
into  the  horizon,  in  all,  three  hundred  verses,  and 
sent  them,  as  I  may  say,  over  the  mountains  to 
Miss  Fuller,  who  may  have  occasion  to  remember 
the  old  rhyme, — 

"  Three  scipen  gode 
Comen  mid  than  flode 
Three  hundred  cnihten." 

But  these  are  far  more  Vandalic  than  they.  In 
this  narrow  sheet  there  is  not  room  even  for  one 


8  LETTERS. 

thought  to  root  itself;  but  you  must  consider  this 
an  odd  leaf  of  a  volume,  and  that  volume 
Your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MRS.  BROWN. 

COKCOKD,  October  5,  1841. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

I  send  you  Williams's  letter  as  the  last  remem 
brancer  to  one  of  those  "  whose  acquaintance  he 
had  the  pleasure  to  form  while  in  Concord."  It 
came  quite  unexpectedly  to  me,  but  I  was  very 
glad  to  receive  it,  though  I  hardly  know  whether 
my  utmost  sincerity  and  interest  can  inspire  a 
sufficient  answer  to  it.  I  should  like  to  have  you 
send  it  back  by  some  convenient  opportunity. 

Pray  let  me  know  what  you  are  thinking  about 
any  day,  —  what  most  nearly  concerns  you.  Last 
winter,  you  know,  you  did  more  than  your  share 
of  the  talking,  and  I  did  not  complain  for  want  of 
an  opportunity.  Imagine  your  stove-door  out  of 
order,  at  least,  and  then  while  I  am  fixing  it,  you 
will  think  of  enough  things  to  say. 

What  makes  the  value  of  your  life  at  present  ? 
what  dreams  have  you  ?  and  what  realizations  ? 
You  know  there  is  a  high  table-land  which  not 
even  the  east  wind  reaches.  Now  can't  we  walk 


LETTERS.  9 

and  chat  upon  its  plane  still,  as  if  there  were  no 
lower  latitudes  ?  Surely  our  two  destinies  are 
topics  interesting  and  grand  enough  for  any  occa 
sion. 

I  hope  you  have  many  gleams  of  serenity  and 
health,  or,  if  your  body  will  grant  you  no  positive 
respite,  —  that  you  may,  at  any  rate,  enjoy  your 
sickness  occasionally,  as  much  as  I  used  to  tell  of. 
But  here  is  the  bundle  going  to  be  done  up,  so  ac 
cept  a  "  good-night  "  from 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  MRS.  L.  C.  B. 

CONCORD,  March  2,  1842. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

I  believe  I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  you,  for 
what  was  news  you  have  learned  from  other 
sources.  I  am  much  the  same  person  that  I  was, 
who  should  be  so  much  better ;  yet  when  I  re 
alize  what  has  transpired,  and  the  greatness  of 
the  part  I  am  unconsciously  acting,  I  am  thrilled, 
and  it  seems  as  if  there  were  none  in  history  to 
match  it. 

Soon  after  John's  death  I  listened  to  a  music- 
box,  and  if,  at  any  time,  that  event  had  seemed  in 
consistent  with  the  beauty  and  harmony  of  the 
universe,  it  was  then  gently  constrained  into  the 
1* 


10  LETTERS. 

placid  course  of  nature  by  those  steady  notes,  in 
mild  and  unoffended  tone  echoing  far  and  wide 
under  the  heavens.  But  I  find  these  things  more 
strange  than  sad  to  me.  What  right  have  I  to 
grieve,  who  have  not  ceased  to  wonder  ?  We 
feel  at  first  as  if  some  opportunities  of  kindness  and 
sympathy  were  lost,  but  learn  afterward  that  any 
pure  grief  is  ample  recompense  for  all.  That  is, 
if  we  are  faithful  ;  for  a  great  grief  is  but  sympa 
thy  with  the  soul  that  disposes  events,  and  is  as 
natural  as  the  resin  on  Arabian  trees.  Only  Na 
ture  has  a  right  to  grieve  perpetually,  for  she  only 
is  innocent.  Soon  the  ice  will  melt,  and  the 
blackbirds  sing  along  the  river  which  he  fre 
quented,  as  pleasantly  as  ever.  The  same  ever 
lasting  serenity  will  appear  in  this  face  of  God, 
and  we  will  not  be  sorrowful,  if  he  is  not. 

We  are  made  happy  when  reason  can  discover 
no  occasion  for  it.  The  memory  of  some  past 
moments  is  more  persuasive  than  the.  experience 
of  present  ones.  There  have  been  visions  of  such 
breadth  and  brightness  that  these  motes  were  in 
visible  in  their  light. 

I  do  not  wish  to  see  John  ever  again,  —  I  mean 
him  who  is  dead,  —  but  that  other,  whom  only  he 
would  have  wished  to  see,  or  to  be,  of  whom  he 
was  the  imperfect  representative.  For  we  are  not 
what  we  are,  nor  do  we  treat  or  esteem  each 
other  for  such,  but  for  what  we  are  capable  of 
being. 


LETTERS.  11 

As  for  Waldo,  he  died  as  the  mist  rises  from 
the  brook,  which  the  sun  will  soon  dart  his  rays 
through.  Do  not  the  flowers  die  every  autumn  ? 
He  had  not  even  taken  root  here.  I  was  not 
startled  to  hear  that  he  was  dead  :  it  seemed  the 
most  natural  event  that  could  happen.  His  fine 
organization  demanded  it,  and  nature  gently 
yielded  its  request.  It  would  have  been  strange 
if  he  had  lived.  Neither  will  nature  manifest  any 
sorrow  at  his  death,  but  soon  the  note  of  the  lark 
will  be  heard  down  in  the  meadow,  and  fresh  dan 
delions  will  spring  from  the  old  stocks  where  he 
plucked  them  last  summer. 

I  have  been  living  ill  of  late,  but  am  now  doing 
better.  How  do  you  live  in  that  Plymouth  world, 

now-a-days?      Please    remember   me    to    M 

R .     You  must  not  blame  me  if  I  do  talk  to 

the  clouds,  for  I  remain 

Your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  TIIOREAU. 


TO   MR.  FULLER. 

CONCORD,  January  16,  1843. 

DEAR  RICHARD  :  — 

I  need  not  thank  you  for  your  present,  for  I 
hear  its  music,  which  seems  to  be  playing  just  for 
us  two  pilgrims  marching  over  hill  and  dale  of  a 


12  LETTERS. 

summer  afternoon,  up  those  long  Bolton  hills  and 
by  those  bright  Harvard  lakes,  such  as  I  see  in 
the  placid  Lucerne  on  the  lid ;  and  whenever  I 
hear  it,  it  will  recall  happy  hours  passed  with  its 
donor. 

When  did  mankind  make  that  foray  into  nature 
and  bring  off  this  booty  ?  For  certainly  it  is  but 
history  that  some  rare  virtue  in  remote  times  plun 
dered  these  strains  from  above  and  communicated 
them  to  men.  Whatever  we  may  think  of  it, 
it  is  a  part  of  the  harmony  of  the  spheres  you 
have  sent  me,  which  has  condescended  to  serve 
us  Admetuses,  and  I  hope  I  may  so  behave 
that  this  may  always  be  the  tenor  of  your  thought 
for  me. 

If  you  have  any  strains,  the  conquest  of  your 
own  spear  or  quill,  to  accompany  these,  let  the 
winds  waft  them  also  to  me. 

I  write  this  with  one  of  the  "  primaries  "  of  my 
osprey's  wings,  which  I  have  preserved  over  my 
glass  for  some  state  occasion,  and  now  it  offers. 

Mrs.  E sends  her  love. 

Your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  13 

TO   MKS.  L.  C.  B. 

CONCORD,  January  24,  1843. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

The  other  day  I  wrote  you  a  letter  to  go  in 

Mrs.  E 's  bundle,  but,  as  it  seemed  unworthy, 

I  did  not  send  it,  and  now,  to  atone  for  that,  I  am 
going  to  send  this,  whether  it  be  worthy  or  not. 
I  will  not  venture  upon  news,  for,  as  all  the  house 
hold  are  gone  to  bed,  I  cannot  learn  what  has 
been  told  you.  Do  you  read  any  noble  verses 
nowadays?  or  do  not  verses  still  seem  noble? 
For  my  own  part,  they  have  been  the  only  things 
I  remembered,  or  that  which  occasioned  them, 
when  all  things  else  were  blurred  and  defaced. 
All  things  have  put  on  mourning  but  they;  for 
the  elegy  itself  is  some  victorious  melody  or  joy 
escaping  from  the  wreck. 

It  is  a  relief  to  read  some  true  book,  wherein 
all  are  equally  dead,  —  equally  alive.  I  think  the 
best  parts  of  Shakespeare  would  only  be  enhanced 
by  the  most  thrilling  and  affecting  events.  I  have 
found  it  so.  And  so  much  the  more,  as  they  are 
not  intended  for  consolation. 

Do  you  think  of  coming  to  Concord  again  ?  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you.  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  that  I  could  see  you  when  I  would. 

We  always  seem  to  be  living  just  on  the  brink 
of  a  pure  and  lofty  intercourse,  which  would  make 
the  ills  and  trivialness  of  life  ridiculous.  After 


14  LETTERS. 

each  little  interval,  though  it  be  but  for  the  night, 
we  are  prepared  to  meet  each  other  as  gods  and 
goddesses. 

I  seem  to  have  dodged  all  my  days  with  one  or 
two  persons,  and  lived  upon  expectation,  —  as  if 
the  bud  would  surely  blossom ;  and  so  I  am  con 
tent  to  live. 

What  means  the  fact,  —  which  is  so  common, 
so  universal,  —  that  some  soul  that  has  lost  all 
hope  for  itself  can  inspire  in  another  listening  soul 
an  infinite  confidence  in  it,  even  while  it  is  ex 
pressing  its  despair  ? 

I  am  very  happy  in  my  present  environment, 
though  actually  mean  enough  myself,  and  so,  of 
course,  all  around  me ;  yet,  I  am  sure,  we  for  the 
most  part  are  transfigured  to  one  another,  and  are 
that  to  the  other  which  we  aspire  to  be  ourselves. 
The  longest  course  of  mean  and  trivial  intercourse 
may  not  prevent  my  practising  this  divine  courtesy 
to  my  companion.  Notwithstanding  all  I  hear 
about  brooms,  and  scouring,  and  taxes,  and  house 
keeping,  I  am  constrained  to  live  a  strangely 
mixed  life,  —  as  if  even  Valhalla  might  have  its 
kitchen.  We  are  all  of  us  Apollos  serving  some 
Admetus. 

I  think  I  must  have  some  muses  in  my  pay  that 
I  know  not  of,  for  certain  musical  wishes  of  mine 
are  answered  as  soon  as  entertained.  Last  sum 
mer  I  went  to  Hawthorne's  suddenly  for  the  ex 
press  purpose  of  borrowing  his  music-box,  and 


LETTERS.  15 

almost  immediately  Mrs.  H proposed  to  lend 

it  to  me.  The  other  day  I  said  I  must  go  to  Mrs. 
Barrett's  to  hear  hers,  and,  lo !  straightway  Rich 
ard  F sent  me  one  for  a  present  from  Cam 
bridge.  It  is  a  very  good  one.  I  should  like  to 
have  you  hear  it.  I  shall  not  have  to  employ  you 
to  borrow  for  me  now.  Good  night. 

From  your  affectionate  friend, 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MRS.  L.  C.  B. 

CONCORD,  Friday  Evening, 
January  25,  1843. 

DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

Mrs.  E asks  me  to  write  you  a  letter,  which 

she  will  put  into  her  bundle  to-morrow  along 
with  the  Tribunes  and  Standards,  and  miscel 
lanies,  and  what  not,  to  make  an  assortment.  But 
what  shall  I  write.  You  live  a  good  way  off,  and 
I  don't  know  that  I  have  anything  which  will 
bear  sending  so  far.  But  I  am  mistaken,  or 
rather  impatient  when  I  say  this,  —  for  we  all 
have  a  gift  to  send,  not  only  when  the  year  be 
gins,  but  as  long  as  interest  and  memory  last.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  have  got  the  many  I 
have  sent  you,  or  rather  whether  you  were  quite 
sure  where  they  came  from.  I  mean  the  letters 
I  have  sometimes  launched  off  eastward  in  my 


16  LETTERS. 

thought ;  but  if  you  have  been  happier  at  one 
time  than  another,  think  that  then  you  received 
them.  But  this  that  I  now  send  you  is  of  another 
sort.  It  will  go  slowly,  drawn  by  horses  over 
muddy  roads,  and  lose  much  of  its  little  value  by 
the  way.  You  may  have  to  pay  for  it,  and  it  may 
not  make  you  happy  after  all.  But  what  shall  be 
my  new-year's  gift,  then  ?  Why,  I  will  send 
you  my  still  fresh  remembrance  of  the  hours  I 
have  passed  with  you  here,  for  I  find  in  the  re 
membrance  of  them  the  best  gift  you  have  left 
to  me.  We  are  poor  and  sick  creatures  at  best ; 
but  we  can  have  well  memories,  and  sound  and 
healthy  thoughts  of  one  another  still,  and  an  in 
tercourse  may  be  remembered  which  was  without 
blur,  and  above  us  both. 

Perhaps  you  may  like  to  know  of  my  estate 
nowadays.  As  usual,  I  find  it  harder  to  account 
for  the  happiness  I  enjoy,  than  for  the  sadness 
which  instructs  me  occasionally.  If  the  little  of 
this  last  which  visits  me  would  only  be  sadder,  it 
would  be  happier.  One  while  I  am  vexed  by  a 
sense  of  meanness  ;  one  while  I  simply  wonder 
at  the  mystery  of  life  ;  and  at  another,  and  at  an 
other,  seem  to  rest  on  my  oars,  as  if  propelled  by 
propitious  breezes  from  I  know  not  what  quarter. 
But  for  the  most  part,  I  am  an  idle,  inefficient,  lin 
gering  (one  term  will  do  as  well  as  another,  where 
all  are  true  and  none  true  enough)  member  of  the 
great  commonwealth,  who  have  most  need  of  my 


LETTERS.  17 

own  charity,  —  if  I  could  not  be  charitable  and 
indulgent  to  myself,  perhaps  as  good  a  subject  for 
my  own  satire  as  any.  You  see  how,  when  I 
come  to  talk  of  myself,  I  soon  run  dry,  for  I 
would  fain  make  that  a  subject  which  can  be  no 
subject  for  me,  at  least  not  till  I  have  the  grace  to 
rule  myself. 

I  do  not  venture  to  say  anything  about  your 
griefs,  for  it  would  be  unnatural  for  me  to  speak 
as  if  I  grieved  with  you,  when  I  think  I  do  not. 
If  I  were  to  see  you,  it  might  be  otherwise.  But 
I  know  you  will  pardon  the  trivialness  of  this  let 
ter  ;  and  I  only  hope  —  as  I  know  that  you  have 
reason  to  be  so  —  that  you  are  still  happier  than 
you  are  sad,  and  that  you  remember  that  the 
smallest  seed  of  faith  is  of  more  worth  than  the 
largest  fruit  of  happiness.  I  have  no  doubt  that 

out  of  S 's  death  you  sometimes  draw  sweet 

consolation,  not  only  for  that,  but  for  long-stand 
ing  griefs,  and  may  find  some  things  made  smooth 
by  it,  which  before  were  rough. 

I  wish  you  would  communicate  with  me,  and 
not  think  me  unworthy  to  know  any  of  your 
thouo-hts.  Don't  think  me  unkind  because  I 

55 

have  not  written  to  you.  I  confess  it  was  for  so 
poor  a  reason  as  that  you  almost  made  a  principle 
of  not  answering.  I  could  not  speak  truly  with 
this  ugly  fact  in  the  way  ;  and  perhaps  I  wished 
to  be  assured,  by  such  evidence  as  you  could  not 
voluntarily  give,  that  it  was  a  kindness.  For 


18  LETTERS. 

every  glance  at  the  moon,  does  she  not  send  me 
an  answering  ray  ?  Noah  would  hardly  have 
done  himself  the  pleasure  to  release  his  dove,  if 
she  had  not  been  about  to  come  back  to  him  with 
tidings  of  green  islands  amid  the  waste. 

But  these  are  far-fetched  reasons.  I  am  not 
speaking  directly  enough  to  yourself  now,  so  let 
me  say  directly  from 

Your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  R.  F.  FULLER. 

CONCORD,  April  2,  1843. 

DEAR  RICHARD  :  — 

I  was  glad  to  receive  a  letter  from  you  so  bright 
and  cheery.  You  speak  of  not  having  made  any 
conquests  with  your  own  spear  or  quill  as  yet ; 
but  if  you  are  tempering  your  spear-head  during 
these  days,  and  fitting  a  straight  and  tough  shaft 
thereto,  will  not  that  suffice  ?  We  are  more 
pleased  to  consider  the  hero  in  the  forest  cutting 
cornel  or  ash  for  his  spear,  than  marching  in  tri 
umph  with  his  trophies,  f  The  present  hour  is 
always  wealthiest  when  it  is  poorer  than  the  fu 
ture  ones,  as  that  is  the  pleasantest  site  which 
affords  the  pleasantest  prospects. 

What  you  say  about  your   studies   furnishing 


LETTERS.  19 

you  with  a  "  mimic  idiom  "  only,  reminds  me  that 
we  shall  all  do  well  if  we  learn  so  much  as  to  talk, 

—  to  speak  truth.      The  only  fruit  which  even 
much  living  yields  seems  to  be  often  only  some 
trivial    success,  —  the   ability   to   do   some    slight 
thing  better.     We  make   conquest  only  of  husks 
and  shells  for  the  most  part,  —  at  least  apparently, 

—  but  sometimes  these  are  cinnamon  and  spices, 
you  know.     Even  the  grown  hunter  you  speak  of 
slays  a  thousand  buffaloes,  and   brings    off  only 
their    hides   and    tongues.     What  immense  sacri 
fices,   what  hecatombs   and   holocausts,  the    gods 
exact  for  very  slight  favors !     How  much  sincere 
life  before  we  can  even  utter  one  sincere  word. 

fWhat  I  was  learning  in  College  was  chiefly,  I 
think,  to  express  myself,  and  I  see  now,  that  as  the 
old  orator  prescribed,  1st,  action ;  2d,  action  ;  3d, 
action ;  my  teachers  should  have  prescribed  to  me, 
1st,  sincerity ;  2d,  sincerity ;  3d,  sincerity.  The 
old  mythology  is  incomplete  without  a  god  or  god 
dess  of  sincerity,  on  whose  altars  we  might  offer 
up  all  the  products  of  our  farms,  our  workshops, 
and  our  studies.  It  should  be  our  Lar  when  we 
sit  on  the  hearth,  and  our  Tutelar  Genius  when  we 
walk  abroad.  This  is  the  only  panacea.  I  mean 
sincerity  in  our  dealings  with  ourselves  mainly ; 
any  other  is  comparatively  easy,/  But  I  must  stop  % 
before  I  get  to  ITthly.  I  believe  I  have  but  one 
text  and  one  sermon. 

Your  rural  adventures  beyond  the  West  Cam- 

.V 


20  LETTERS. 

bridge  hills  have  probably  lost  nothing  by  distance 
of  time  or  space.  I  used  to  hear  only  the  sough 
of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  Concord,  when  I  was 
striving  to  give  my  attention  to  a  page  of  Calcu 
lus.  But,  depend  upon  it,  you  will  love  your 
native  hills  the  better  for  being  separated  from 
them. 

I  expect  to  leave  Concord,  which  is  my  Rome, 
and  its  people,  who  are  my  Romans,  in  May,  and 
go  to  New  York,  to  be  a  tutor  in  Mr.  William 
Emerson's  family.  So  I  will  bid  you  good  by  till 
I  see  you  or  hear  from  you  again. 
Your  friend, 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MRS.  E. 
CASTLETON,  Staten  Island,  May  22, 1843. 

MY  DEAR  FKIEND  :  — 

I  believe  a  good  many  conversations  with  you 
were  left  in  an  unfinished  state,  and  now  indeed  I 
don't  know  where  to  take  them  up.  But  I  will 
resume  some  of  the  unfinished  silence.  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  know  you.  I  think  of  you  as  some 
elder  sister  of  mine,  whom  I  could  not  have 
avoided,  —  a  sort  of  lunar  influence,  —  only  of 
such  age  as  the  moon,  whose  time  is  measured  by 
her  light.  You  must  know  that  you  represent  to 


LETTERS.  21 

me  woman,  for  I  have  not  travelled  very  far  or 
wide,  —  and  what  if  I  had  ?  I  like  to  deal  with 
you,  for  I  believe  you  do  not  lie  or  steal,  and  these 
are  very  rare  virtues.  I  thank  you  for  your  influ 
ence  for  two  years.  I  was  fortunate  to  be  sub 
jected  to  it,  and  am  now  to  remember  it.  It  is  the 
noblest  gift  we  can  make  ;  what  signify  all  others 
that  can  be  bestowed  ?  You  have  helped  to  keep 
my  life  "  on  loft,"  as  Chaucer  says  of  Griselda, 
and  in  a  better  sense.  You  always  seemed  to  look 
down  at  me  as  from  some  elevation  —  some  of 
your  high  humilities  —  and  I  was  the  better  for 
having  to  look  up.  I  felt  taxed  not  to  disappoint 
your  expectation  ;  for  could  there  be  any  accident 
so  sad  as  to  be  respected  for  something  better  than 
we  are  ?  It  was  a  pleasure  even  to  go  away  from 
you,  as  it  is  not  to  meet  some,  as  it  apprised  me 
of  my  high  relations ;  and  such  a  departure  is  a 
sort  of  further  introduction  and  meeting.  ("Nothing 
makes  the  earth  seem  so  spacious  as  to  have 
friends  at  a  distance  ;  they  make  the  latitudes  and 
longitudes.^/ 

You  must  not  think  that  fate  is  so  dark  there, 
for  even  here  I  can  see  a  faint  reflected  light  over 
Concord,  and  I  think  that  at  this  distance  I  can 
better  weigh  the  value  of  a  doubt  there.  Your 
moonlight,  as  I  have  told  you,  though  it  is  a  re 
flection  of  the  sun,  allows  of  bats  and  owls  and 
other  twilight  birds  to  flit  therein.  But  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  can  elevate  your  life  with  a 


22  LETTERS. 

doubt,  for  I  am  sure  that  it  is  nothing  but  an  insa 
tiable  faith  after  all,  that  deepens  and  darkens  its 
current.  And  your  doubt  and  my  confidence  are 
only  a  difference  of  expression. 

I  have  hardly  begun  to  live  on  Staten  Island 
yet ;  but,  like  the  man  who,  when  forbidden  to 
tread  on  English  ground,  carried  Scottish  ground 
in  his  boots,  I  carry  Concord  ground  in  my  boots 
and  in  my  hat,  —  and  am  I  not  made  of  Concord 
dust  ?  I  cannot  realize  that  it  is  the  roar  of  the 
sea  I  hear  now,  and  not  the  wind  in  Walden 
woods.  I  find  more  of  Concord,  after  all,  in  the 
prospect  of  the  sea,  beyond  Sandy  Hook,  than  in 
the  fields  and  woods. 

If  you  were  to  have  this  Hugh  the  gardener  for 
your  man,  you  would  think  a  new  dispensation 
had  commenced.  He  might  put  a  fairer  aspect  on 
the  natural  world  for  you,  or  at  any  rate  a  screen 
between  you  and  the  almshouse.  There  is  a 
beautiful  red  honeysuckle  now  in  blossom  in  the 
woods  here,  which  should  be  transplanted  to  Con 
cord  ;  and  if  what  they  tell  me  about  the  tulip- 
tree  be  true,  you  should  have  that  also.  I  have 
not  seen  Mrs.  Black  yet,  but  I  intend  to  call  on 
her  soon.  Have  you  established  those  simpler 
modes  of  living  yet?  —  "In  the  full  tide  of  suc 
cessful  operation  ?  " 

Tell  Mrs.  Brown  that  I  hope  she  is  anchored  in 
a  secure  haven  and  derives  much  pleasure  still 
from  reading  the  poets,  and  that  her  constellation 


LETTEKS.  23 

is  not  quite  set  from  my  sight,  though  it  is  sunk  so 

low  in  that  northern  horizon.    Tell  E H 

that  her  bright  present  did  "  carry  ink  safely  to 
Staten  Island,"  and  was  a  conspicuous  object  in 
Master  Haven's  inventory  of  my  effects.  Give 

my  respects  to  Madam   E ,   whose    Concord 

face  I  should  be  glad  to  see  here  this  summer  ; 
and  remember  me  to  the  rest  of  the  household 
who  have  had  vision  of  me.  Shake  a  day-day  to 
Edith,  and  say  good  night  to  Ellen  for  me.  Fare 
well. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MRS.  E. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  June  20,  1843. 
MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND  I 

I  have  only  read  a  page  of  your  letter,  and  have 
come  out  to  the  top  of  the  hill  at  sunset,  where  I 
can  see  the  ocean,  to  prepare  to  read  the  rest.  It 
is  fitter  that  it  should  hear  it  than  the  walls  of  my 
chamber.  The  very  crickets  here  seem  to  chirp 
around  me  as  they  did  not  before.  I  feel  as  if  it 
were  a  great  daring  to  go  on  and  read  the  rest,  and 
then  to  live  accordingly.  There  are  more  than 
thirty  vessels  in  sight  going  to  sea.  I  am  almost 
afraid  to  look  at  your  letter.  I  see  that  it  will 
make  my  life  very  steep,  but  it  may  lead  to  fairer 
prospects  than  this. 


24  LETTERS. 

You  seem  to  me  to  speak  out  of  a  very  clear 
and  high  heaven,  where  any  one  may  be  who 
stands  so  high.  Your  voice  seems  not  a  voice, 
but  comes  as  much  from  the  blue  heavens  as  from 
the  paper. 

My  dear  friend,  it  was  very  noble  in  you  to 
write  me  so  trustful  an  answer.  It  will  do  as  well 
for  another  world  as  for  this  ;  such  a  voice  is  for 
no  particular  time  nor  person,  but  it  makes  him 
who  may  hear  it  stand  for  all  that  is  lofty  and  true 
in  humanity.  The  thought  of  you  will  constantly 
elevate  my  life  ;  it  will  be  something  always  above 
the  horizon  to  behold,  as  when  I  look  up  at  the 
evening  star.  I  think  I  know  your  thoughts  with 
out  seeing  you,  and  as  well  here  as  in  Concord. 
You  are  not  at  all  strange  to  me. 

I  could  hardly  believe,  after  the  lapse  of  one 
night,  that  I  had  such  a  noble  letter  still  at  hand 
to  read, — that  it  was  not  some  fine  dream.  I 
looked  at  midnight  to  be  sure  that  it  was  real.  I 
feel  that  I  am  unworthy  to  know  you,  and  yet 
they  will  not  permit  it  wrongfully. 

I,  perhaps,  am  more  willing  to  deceive  by  ap 
pearances  than  you  say  you  are ;  it  would  not  be 
wrorth  the  while  to  tell  how  willing  ;  but  I  have 
the  power  perhaps  too  much  to  forget  my  mean 
ness  as  soon  as  seen,  and  not  be  incited  by  per 
manent  sorrow.  My  actual  life  is  unspeakably 
mean  compared  with  what  I  know  and  see  that  it 
might  be.  Yet  the  ground  from  which  I  see  and 


LETTERS.  25 

say  this  is  some  part  of  it.  It  ranges  from  heaven 
to  earth,  and  is  all  things  in  an  hour.  The  experi 
ence  of  every  past*  moment  but  belies  the  faith  of 
each  present.  We  nevej*  conceive  the  greatness 
of  our  fates.  Are  not  these  faint  flashes  of  light 
which  sometimes  obscure  the  sun  their  certain 
dawn  ? 

My  friend,  I  have  read  your  letter  as  if  I  was 
not  reading  it.  After  each  pause  I  could  defer 
the  rest  forever.  The  thought  of  you  will  be  a 
new  motive  for  every  right  action.  You  are  an 
other  human  being  whom  I  know,  and  might  not 
our  topic  be  as  broad  as  the  universe  ?  What 
have  we  to  do  with  petty  rumbling  news  ?  We 
have  our  own  great  affairs.  Some'times  in  Con 
cord  I  found  my  actions  dictated,  as  it  were,  by 
your  influence,  and  though  it  lead  almost  to  trivial 
Hindoo  observances,  yet  it  was  good  and  elevat 
ing.  To  hear  that  you  have  sad  hours  is  not  sad 
to  me.  I  rather  rejoice  at  the  richness  of  your 
experience.  Only  think  of  some  sadness  away  in 
Pekin,  —  unseen  and  unknown  there.  What  a 
mine  it  is  !  Would  it  not  weigh  down  the  Celes 
tial  Empire,  with  all  its  gay  Chinese  ?  Our  sad 
ness  is  not  sad,  but  our  cheap  joys.  Let  us  be 
sad  about  all  we  see  and  are,  for  so  we  demand 
and  pray  for  better.  It  is  the  constant  prayer  and 
whole  Christian  religion.  I  could  hope  that  you 
would  get  well  soon,  and  have  a  healthy  body  for 
this  world,  but  I  know  this  cannot  be ;  and  the 


26  LETTERS. 

Fates,  after  all,  are  the  accomplishes  of  our  hopes. 
Yet  I  do  hope  that  you  may  find  it  a  worthy 
struggle,  and  life  seem  grand  still  through  the 
clouds. 

What  wealth  is  it  to  have  such  friends  that  we 
cannot  think  of  them  without  elevation  !  And  we 
can  think  of  them  any  time  and  anywhere,  and  it 
costs  nothing  but  the  lofty  disposition.  I  cannot 
tell  you  the  joy  your  letter  gives  me,  which  will 
not  quite  cease  till  the  latest  time.  Let  me  ac 
company  your  finest  thought. 

I  send  my  love  to  my  other  friend  and  brother, 
whose  nobleness  I  slowly  recognize. 

HENRY. 


TO  MB.  E. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  August  7,  1843. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

I  fear  I  have  nothing  to  send  you  worthy  of  so 
good  an  opportunity.  Of  New  York  I  still  know 
but  little,  though  out  of  so  many  thousands  there 
are  no  doubt  many  units  whom  it  would  be  worth 
my  while  to  know.  Mr.  James  talks  of  going 
to  Germany  soon  with  his  wife  to  learn  the  lan 
guage.  He  says  he  must  know  it ;  can  never 
learn  it  here  ;  there  he  may  absorb  it ;  and  is 
very  anxious  to  learn  beforehand  where  he  had 
best  locate  himself  to  enjoy  the  advantage  of  the 


LETTERS.  27 

highest  culture,  learn  the  language  in  its  purity, 
and  not  exceed  his  limited  means.  I  referred  him 
to  Longfellow.  Perhaps  you  can  help  him. 

I  have  had  a  pleasant  talk  with  Channing  ;  and 
Greeley,  too,  it  was  refreshing  to  meet.  They 
were  both  much  pleased  with  your  criticism  on 
Carlyle,  but  thought  that  you  had  overlooked 
what  chiefly  concerned  them  in  the  book, —  its 
practical  aim  and  merits. 

I  have  also  spent  some  pleasant  hours  with  W. 
and  T.  at  their  counting-room,  or  rather  intelli 
gence  office. 

I  must  still  reckon  myself  with  the  innumerable 
army  of  invalids, —  undoubtedly  in  a  fair  field  they 
would  rout  the  well,  —  though  I  am  tougher  than 
formerly.  Methinks  I  could  paint  the  sleepy  god 
more  truly  than  the  poets  have  done,  from  more 
intimate  experience.  Indeed,  I  have  not  kept  my 
eyes  very  steadily  open  to  the  things  of  this  world 
of  late,  and  hence  have  little  to  report  concerning 
them.  However,  I  trust  the  awakening  will  come 
before  the  last  trump,  —  and  then  perhaps  I  may 
remember  some  of  my  dreams. 

I  study  the  aspects  of  commerce  at  its  Narrows 
here,  where  it  passes  in  review  before  me,  and  this 
seems  to  be  beginning  at  the  right  end  to  under 
stand  this  Babylon.  I  have  made  a  very  rude 
translation  of  the  Seven  against  Thebes,  and 
Pindar  too  I  have  looked  at,  and  wish  he  was 
better  worth  translating.  f"l  believe  even  the  best 


28  LETTERS. 

things  are  not  equal  to  their  fame.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  translate  fame  itself,  —  or  is 
not  that  what  the  poets  themselves  do  ?J  How 
ever,  I  have  not  done  with  Pindar  yet.  I  sent  a 
long  article  on  Etzler's  book  to  the  Democratic 
Review  six  weeks  ago,  which  at  length  they 
have  determined  not  to  accept,  as  they  could  not 
subscribe  to  all  the  opinions,  but  asked  for  other 
matter, — purely  literary,  I  suppose.  O'Sullivan 
wrote  me  that  articles  of  this  kind  have  to  be  re 
ferred  to  the  circle,  who,  it  seems,  are  represented 
by  this  journal,  and  said  something  about  "  col 
lective  we,"  and  "  homogeneity." 

Pray  don't  think  of  Bradbury  and  Soden  any 
more,  — 

"  For  good  deed  done  through  praiere 
Is  sold  and  bought  too  dear,  I  wis, 
To  herte  that  of  great  valor  is." 

I  see  that  they  have  given  up  their  shop  here. 

Say  to  Mrs.  E that  I  am  glad  to  remember 

how  she  too  dwells  there  in  Concord,  and  shall 
send  her  anon  some  of  the  thoughts  that  belong  to 
her.  As  for  Edith,  I  seem  to  see  a  star  in  the  east 
over  where  the  young  child  is.  Remember  me  to 

Mrs.  B . 

Your  friend, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  29 


TO   MRS.  E. 

STATEX  ISLAND,  October  16,  1843. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND:  — 

I  promised  you  some  thoughts  long  ago,  but  it 
would  be  hard  to  tell  whether  these  are  the  ones. 
I  suppose  that  the  great  questions  of  "  Fate,  Free 
will,  Foreknowledge  absolute,"  which  used  to  be 
discussed  at  Concord,  are  still  unsettled.  And 
here  comes  C banning,  with  his  "  Present,"  to  vex 
the  world  again,  —  a  rather  galvanic  movement,  I 
think.  However,  I  like  the  man  all  the  better, 
though  his  schemes  the  less.  I  am  sorry  for  his 
confessions.  Faith  never  makes  a  confession. 

Have  you  had  the  annual  berrying  party,  or  sat 
on  the  Cliffs  a  whole  day  this  summer?  I  sup 
pose  the  flowers  have  fared  quite  as  well  since  I 
was  not  there  to  scoff  at  them ;  and  the  hens, 
without  doubt,  keep  up  their  reputation. 

I  have  been  reading  lately  what  of  Quarles's 
poetry  I  could  get.  He  was  a  contemporary  of 
Herbert,  and  a  kindred  spirit.  I  think  you  would 
like  him.  It  is  rare  to  find  one  who  was  so  much 
of  a  poet  and  so  little  of  an  artist.  He  wrote  long 
poems,  almost  epics  for  length,  about  Jonah,  Es 
ther,  Job,  Samson,  and  Solomon,  interspersed  with 
meditations  after  a  quite  original  plan,  —  Shep 
herd's  Oracles,  Comedies,  Romances,  Fancies,  and 
Meditations,  —  the  quintessence  of  meditation, 
—  and  Enchiridions  of  Meditation,  all  divine,— 


30  LETTERS. 

and  what  he  calls  his  Morning  Muse ;  besides 
prose  works  as  curious  as  the  rest.  He  was  an 
unwearied  Christian,  and  a  reformer  of  some  old 
school  withal.  Hopelessly  quaint,  as  if  he  lived 
all  alone  and  knew  nobody  but  his  wife,  who  ap 
pears  to  have  reverenced  him.  He  never  doubts 
his  genius ;  it  is  only  he  and  his  God  in  all  the 
world.  He  uses  language  sometimes  as  greatly 
as  Shakespeare  ;  and  though  there  is  not  much 
straight  grain  in  him,  there  is  plenty  of  tough, 
crooked  timber.  In  an  age  when  Herbert  is  re- 

O 

vived,  Quarles  surely  ought  not  to  be  forgotten. 

I.  will  copy  a  few  such  sentences,  as  I  should 
read  to  you  if  there.  Mrs.  Brown,  too,  may  find 
some  nutriment  in  them. 

How  does  the  Saxon  Edith  do  ?  Can  vou  tell 
yet  to  which  school  of  philosophy  she  belongs,  — 
whether  she  will  be  a  fair  saint  of  some  Christian 
order,  or  a  follower  of  Plato  and  the  heathen  ? 
Bid  Ellen  a  good  night  or  a  good  morning  from 
me,  and  see  if  she  will  remember  where  it  comes 

from  ;  and  remember  me  to  Mrs.  B ,  and  your 

mother,  and  E H . 

Your  friend, 

HENKY. 


LElHRS.  31 

TO   MRS.  THOREAU. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  July  7,  1843. 

DEAR  MOTHER  :  — 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter  and  papers. 
Tell  father  that  circumstantial  letters  make  very 
substantial  reading,  at  any  rate.  I  like  to  know 
even  how  the  sun  shines  and  garden  grows  with 
you.  Tell  Sophia  that  I  have  pressed  some  blos 
soms  of  the  tulip-tree  for  her.  They  look  some 
what  like  white  lilies. 

Pray,  have  you  the  seventeen-year  locust  in 
Concord  ?  The  air  here  is  filled  with  their  din. 
They  come  out  of  the  ground  at  first  in  an  imper 
fect  state,  and,  crawling  up  the  shrubs  and  plants, 
the  perfect  insect  burst  out  through  the  back. 
They  are  doing  great  damage  to  the  fruit  and  for 
est  trees.  The  latter  are  covered  with  dead 
twigs,  which  in  the  distance  look  like  the  blossoms 
of  the  chestnut.  They  bore  every  twig  of  last 
year's  growth  in  order  to  deposit  their  eggs  in  it. 
In  a  few  weeks  the  eggs  will  be  hatched,  and  the 
worms  fall  to  the  ground  and  enter  it,  and  in  1860 
make  their  appearance  again.  I  conversed  about 
their  coming  this  season  before  they  arrived. 
They  do  no  injury  to  the  leaves,  but,  beside  bor 
ing  the  twigs,  suck  their  sap  for  sustenance. 
Their  din  is  heard  by  those  who  sail  along  the 
shore  from  the  distant  woods.  Phar-r-r-aoh. 
Phar-r-r-aoh.  They  are  departing  now.  Dogs, 


32  LITERS. 

cats,  and  chickens  subsist  mainly  upon  them  in 
some  places. 

I  have  not  been  to  New  York  for  more  than 
three  weeks.  I  have  had  an  interesting  letter 
from  Mr.  Lane,  describing  their  new  prospects. 
My  pupil  and  I  are  getting  on  apace.  He  is  re 
markably  well  advanced  in  Latin,  and  is  well 
advancing. 

Your  letter  has  just  arrived.  I  was  not  aware 
that  it  was  so  long  since  I  wrote  home ;  I  only 
knew  that  I  had  sent  five  or  six  letters  to  the 
town.  It  is  very  refreshing  to  hear  from  you, 
though  it  is  not  all  good  news.  But  I  trust  that 
Stearns  Wheeler  is  not  dead.  I  should  be  slow  to 
believe  it.  He  was  made  to  work  very  well  in  this 
world.  There  need  be  no  tragedy  in  his  death. 

The  demon  which  is  said  to  haunt  the  Jones 
family,  hovering  over  their  eyelids  with  wings 
steeped  in  juice  of  poppies,  has  commenced  an 
other  campaign  against  me.  I  am  "clear  Jones  " 
in  this  respect  at  least.  But  he  finds  little  encour 
agement  in  my  atmosphere,  I  assure  you,  for  I  do 
not  once  fairly  lose  myself,  except  in  those  hours 
of  truce  allotted  to  rest  by  immemorial  custom. 
However,  this  skirmishing  interferes  sadly  with  my 
literary  projects,  and  I  am  apt  to  think  it  a  good 
day's  work  if  I  maintain  a  soldier's  eye  till  night 
fall.  Very  well,  it  does  not  matter  much  in  what 
wars  we  serve,  whether  in  the  Highlands  or  the 
Lowlands.  Everywhere  we  get  soldiers'  pay  still. 


LETTERS.  33 

Give  my  love  to  Aunt  Louisa,  whose  benignant 
face  I  sometimes  see  right  in  the  wall,  as  naturally 
and  necessarily  shining  on  my  path  as  some  star 
of  unaccountably  greater  age  and  higher  orbit 
than  myself.  Let  it  be  inquired  by  her  of  George 
Minott,  as  from  me,  —  for  she  sees  him,  —  if  he 
has  seen  any  pigeons  yet,  and  tell  him  there  are 
plenty  of  jack-snipes  here.  As  for  William  P., 
the  "  worthy  young  man,"  as  I  live,  my  eyes  have 
not  fallen  on  him  yet. 

I  have  not  had  the  influenza,  though  here  are 
its  head- quarters,  —  unless  my  first  week's  cold 
was  it.  Tell  Helen  I  shall  write  to  her  soon.  I 
have  heard  Lucretia  Mott.  This  is  badly  writ 
ten  ;  but  the  worse  the  writing  the  sooner  you 
get  it  this  time  from 

Your  affectionate  son, 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MISS   THOREAU. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  July  21,  1843. 

DEAR  HELEN  :  — 

I  have  pretty  much  explored  this  island,  inland 
and  along  the  shore,  finding  my  health  inclined 
me  to  the  peripatetic  philosophy.  I  have  visited 
Telegraph  Stations,  Sailors'  Snug  Harbors,  Sea 
man's  Retreats,  Old  Elm-Trees,  where  the  Hu 
guenots  landed,  Britton's  Mills,  and  all  the  vil- 

2*  C 


34  LETTERS. 

lages  on  the  island.  Last  Sunday  I  walked  over  to 
Lake  Island  Farm,  eight  or  nine  miles  from  here, 
where  Moses  Prichard  lived,  and  found  the  pres 
ent  occupant,  one  Mr.  Davenport,  formerly  from 
Massachusetts,  with  three  or  four  men  to  help 
him,  raising  sweet  potatoes  and  tomatoes  by  the 
acre.  It  seemed  a  cool  and  pleasant  retreat,  but 
a  hungry  soil.  As  I  was  coming  away,  I  took  my 
toll -out  of  the  soil  in  the  shape  of  arrow-heads, 
which  may  after  all  be  the  surest  crop,  certainly 
not  affected  by  drought. 

I  am  well  enough  situated  here  to  observe  one 
aspect  of  the  modern  world  at  least.  I  mean  the 
migratory,  —  the  Western  movement.  Sixteen 
hundred  immigrants  arrived  at  quarantine  ground 
on  the  4th  of  July,  and  more  or  less  every  day 
since  I  have  been  here.  I  see  them  occasionally 

.  washing  their  persons  and  clothes,  or  men,  wo 
men,  and  children  gathered  on  an  isolated  quay 
near  the  shore,  stretching  their  limbs  and  taking 
the  air ;  the  •  children  running  races  and  swinging 
on  this  artificial  piece  of  the  land  of  liberty,  while 
their  vessels  are  undergoing  purification.  They 
are  detained  but  a  day  or  two,  and  then  go  up  to 
the  city,  for  the  most  part  without  having  landed 
here. 

/  In  the  city  I  have  seen  since  I  wrote  last,  — 
W.  H.  Channing,  at  whose  house,  in  Fifteenth 
Street,  I  spent  a  few  pleasant  hours,  discussing 
the  all-absorbing  question  "what  to  do  for  the 


LETTERS.  .  35 

race.'/  (He  is  sadly  in  earnest  about  going  up 
-— tfie  river  to  rusticate  for  six  weeks,  and  issues 
a  new  periodical  called  "  The  Present "  in  Sep 
tember.)  Also  Horace  Greelej,  editor  of  the 
"  Tribune,"  who  is  cheerfully  in  earnest,  at  his 
office  of  all  work,  a  hearty  New  Hampshire  boy 
as  one  would  wish  to  meet,  and  says,  "  Now  be 
neighborly,"  and  believes  only,  or  mainly,  first, 
in  the  Sylvania  Association,  somewhere  in  Penn 
sylvania  ;  and,  secondly,  and  most  of  all,  in  a  new 
association  to  go  into  operation  soon  in  New  Jer-J 
sey,  with  which  he  is  connected.  Edward  Palmer 
came  down  to  see  me  Sunday  before  last.  As 

for  W and  T ,  we  have  strangely  dodged 

one  another,  and  have  not  met  for  some  weeks. 

I  believe  I  have  not  told  you  anything  about 
Lucretia  Mott.  It  was  a  good  while  ago  that  I 
heard  her  at  the  Quaker  Church  in  Hester  Street. 
She  is  a  preacher,  and  it  was  advertised  that  she 
would  be  present  on  that  day.  I  liked  all  the  pro 
ceedings  very  well,  their  plainly  greater  harmony 
and  sincerity,  than  elsewhere.  They  do  nothing 
in  a  hurry.  Every  one  that  walks  up  the  aisle  in 
his  square  coat  and  expansive  hat  has  a  history, 
and  comes  from  a  house  to  a  house.  The  women 
come  in  one  after  another  in  their  Quaker  bon 
nets  and  handkerchiefs,  looking  all  like  sisters  or 
so  many  chickadees.  At  length,  after  a  long 
silence  —  waiting  for  the  Spirit  —  Mrs.  Mott 
rose,  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  began  to  utter  very 


36  LETTERS. 

deliberately  what  the  Spirit  suggested.  Her  self- 
possession  was  something  to  say,  if  all  else  failed ; 
but  it  did  not.  Her  subject  was,  "  The  Abuse  of 
the  Bible,"  and  thence  she  straightway  digressed 
to  slavery  and  the  degradation  of  woman.  It  was 
a  good  speech,  —  transcendentalism  in  its  mildest 
form.  She  sat  down  at  length,  and,  after  a  long 
and  decorous  silence,  in  which  some  seemed  to  be 
really  digesting  her  words,  the  elders  shook  hands, 
and  the  meeting  dispersed.  On  the  whole,  I 
liked  their  ways  and  the  plainness  of  their  meet 
ing-house.  It  looked  as  if  it  was  indeed  made  for 


o 

service. 


I  think  that  Stearns  Wheeler  has  left  a  gap  in 
the  community  not  easy  to  be  filled.  Though  he 
did  not  exhibit  the  highest  qualities  of  the  scholar, 
he  promised,  in  a  remarkable  degree,  many  of  the 
essential  and  rarer  ones  ;  and  his  patient  industry 
and  energy,  his  reverent  love  of  letters,  and  his 
proverbial  accuracy,  will  cause  him  to  be  associ 
ated  in  my  memory  even  with  many  venerable 
names  of  former  days.  It  was  not  wrholly  unfit 
that  so  pure  a  lover  of  books  should  have  ended 
his  pilgrimage  at  the  great  book-mart  of  the  world. 
I  think  of  him  as  healthy  and  brave,  and  am  con 
fident  that  if  he  had  lived,  he  would  have  proved 
useful  in  more  ways  than  I  can  describe.  He 
would  have  been  authority  on  all  matters  of  fact, 
and  a  sort  of  connecting  link  between  men  and 
scholars  of  different  walks  and  tastes.  The  liter- 


LETTERS.  37 

ary  enterprises  he  was  planning  for  himself  and 
friends,  remind  me  of  an  older  and  more  studious 
time.  So  much,  then,  remains  for  us  to  do  who 
survive.  Tell  all  my  friends  in  Concord  that  I  do 
not  send  my  love,  but  retain  it  still. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MKS.  THOREAU. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  August  6,  1843. 

DEAR  MOTHER  :  — 

I  am  chiefly  indebted  to.  your  letters  for  what 
I  have  learned  of '  Concord  and  family  news, 
and  am  very  glad  when  I  get  one.  I  should 
have  liked  to  be  in  Walden  woods  with  you, 
but  not  with  the  railroad.  I  think  of  you  all 
very  often,  and  wonder  if  you  are  still  separated 
from  me  only  by  so  many  miles  of  earth,  or  so 
many  miles  of  memory.  This  life  we  live  is  a 
strange  dream,  and  I  don't  believe  at  all  any  ac 
count  men  give  of  it.  Methinks  I  should  be  con 
tent  to  sit  at  the  back-door  in  Concord,  under  the 
poplar- tree,  henceforth  forever.  Not  that  I  am 
homesick  at  all  —  for  places  are  strangely  indif 
ferent  to  me  —  but  Concord  is  still  a  cynosure  to 
my  eyes,  and  I  find  it  hard  to  attach  it,  even  in 
imagination,  to  the  rest  of  the  globe,  and  tell 
where  the  seam  is. 


38  LETTERS. 

I  fancy  that  this  Sunday  evening  you  are  poring 
over  some  select  book,  almost  transcendental  per 
chance,  or  else  "  Burgh's  Dignity,"  or  Massillon, 
or  the  Christian  Examiner.  Father  has  just  taken 
one  more  look  at  the  garden,  and  is  now  absorbed 
in  Chaptelle,  or  reading  the  newspaper  quite  ab 
stractedly,  only  looking  up  occasionally  over  his 
spectacles  to  see  how  the  rest  are  engaged,  and 
not  to  miss  any  newer  news  that  may  not  be  in 

the  paper.  H has  slipped  in  for  the  fourth 

time  to  learn  the  very  latest  item.  S ,  I  sup 
pose,  is  at  Bangor ;  but  Aunt  L ,  without 

doubt,  is  just  flitting  away  to  some  good  meeting, 
to  save  the  credit  of  you  all. 

It  is  still  a  cardinal  virtue  with  me  to  keep 
awake.  I  find  it  impossible  to  write  or  read  ex 
cept  at  rare  intervals,  but  am,  generally  speaking, 
tougher  than  formerly.  I  could  make  a  pedestrian 
tour  round  the  world,  and  sometimes  think  it 
would  perhaps  be  better  to  do  at  once  the  things 
I  can,  rather  than  be  trying  to  do  what  at  present 
I  cannot  do  well.  However,  I  shall  awake  sooner 
or  later. 

I  have  been  translating  some  Greek,  and  read 
ing  English  poetry,  and  a  month  ago  sent  a  paper 
to  the  Democratic  Review,  which,  at  length, 
they  were  sorry  they  could  not  accept ;  but  they 
could  not  adopt  the  sentiments.  However,  they 
were  very  polite,  and  earnest  that  I  should  send 
them  something  else,  or  reform  that. 


LETTERS.  39 

I  go  moping  about  the  fields  and  woods  here  as 
I  did  in  Concord,  and,  it  seems,  am  thought  to  be 
a  surveyor,  —  an  Eastern  man  inquiring  narrowly 
into  the  condition  -and  value  of  land,  &c.  here, 
preparatory  to  an  extensive  speculation.  One 
neighbor  observed  to  me,  in  a  mysterious  and  half 
inquisitive  way,  that  he  supposed  I  must  be  pretty 
well  acquainted  with  the  state  of  things ;  that  I 
kept  pretty  close :  he  did  n't  see  any  surveying 
instruments,  but  perhaps  I  had  them  in  my  pocket,  j 

I  have  received    H 's  note,  but  have  not 

heard  of  F H yet.  She  is  a  faint 
hearted  writer  who  could  not  take  the  responsi 
bility  of  blotting  one  sheet  alone.  However,  I 
like  very  well  the.  blottings  I  get.  Tell  her  I 
have  not  seen  Mrs.  Child  nor  Mrs.  Sedgwick. 

Love  to  all  from 

Your  affectionate  son, 

HENKY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  MISS  THOREAU. 

STATEN  ISLAND,  October  18,  1843. 

DEAR  H :  — 

What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  "  we  have 
written  eight  times  by  private  opportunity  ?  " 
Is  n't  it  the  more  the  better  ?  And  am  I  not 
glad  of  it  ?  But  people  have  a  habit  of  not  let- 


40  LETTERS. 

ting  me  know  it  when  they  go  to  Concord  from 
New  York.  I  endeavored  to  get  you  "  The 
Present  "  when  I  was  last  in  the  city,  but  they 
were  all  sold ;  and  now  another  is  out,  which  I 
will  send,  if  I  get  it.  I  did  not  send  the  Demo 
cratic  Review,  because  I  had  no  copy,  and  my 
piece  was  not  worth  fifty  cents.  You  think  that 
Channing's  words  would  apply  to  me  too,  as  liv 
ing  more  in  the  natural  than  the  moral  world  ;  but 
I  think  that  you  mean  the  world  of  men  and  wo 
men  rather,  and  reformers  generally.  My  ob 
jection  to  the  Editors  and  all  that  fraternity  is, 
that  they  need  and  deserve  sympathy  themselves 
rather  than  are  able  to  render  it  to  others.  They 
want  faith,  and  mistake  their,  private  ail  for  an 
infected  atmosphere  ;  but  let  any  one  of  them  re 
cover  hope  for  a  moment,  and  right  his  particular 
grievance,  and  he  will  no  longer  train  in  that  com 
pany.  To  speak  or  do  anything  that  shall  concern 
mankind,  one  must  speak  and  act  as  if  well,  or 
from  that  grain  of  health  which  he  has  left.  This 
"  Present"  book  indeed  is  blue,  but  the  hue  of  its 
thoughts  is  yellow.  I  say  these  things  with  the 
less  hesitation,  because  I  have  the  jaundice  my 
self;  but  I  also  know  what  it  is  to  be  well.  But 
do  not  think  that  one  can  escape  from  mankind 
who  is  one  of  them,  and  is  so  constantly  deal 
ing  with  them. 

I  could  not  undertake  to  form  a  nucleus  of  an 
institution   for  the  development  of  infant   minds, 


LETTERS.  41 

where  none  already  existed.  It  would  be  too 
cruel.  And  then,  as  if  looking  all  this  while  one 
way  with  benevolence,  to  walk  off  another  about 
one's  own  affairs  suddenly  !  Something  of  this 
kind  is  an  unavoidable  objection  to  that. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  such  bad  news  about 
Aunt  M ;  but  I  think  that  the  worst  is  al 
ways  the  least  to  be  apprehended,  for  nature  is 
averse  to  it  as  well  as  we.  I  trust  to  hear  that 
she  is  quite  well  soon.  I  send  love  to  her  and 

Aunt    J .      For   three    months    I    have    not 

known  whether  to  think  of  Sophia  as  in  Bangor 
or  Concord,  and  now  you  say  that  she  is  going  di 
rectly.  Tell  her  ta^vrite  to  me,  and  establish  her 
whereabouts,  and  also  to  get  well  directly.  And 
see  that  she  has  something  worthy  to  do  when  she 
gets  down  there,  for  that 's  the  best  remedy  for 
disease. 

Your  affectionate  brother, 

II.   D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  March  27,  1848. 

I  AM  glad  to  hear  that  any  words  of  mine, 
though  spoken  so  long  ago  that  I  can  hardly 
claim  identity  with  their  author,  have  reached 
you.  It  gives  me  pleasure,  because  I  have  there- 


42  LETTERS. 

fore  reason  to  suppose  that  I  have  uttered  what 
concerns  men,  and  that  it  is  not  in  vain  that 
man  speaks  to  man.  This  is  the  value  of  litera 
ture.  Yet  those  days  are  so  distant,  in  every 
sense,  that  I  have  had  to  look  at  that  page  again, 
to  learn  what  was  the  tenor  of  my  thoughts  then. 
I  should  value  that  article,  however,  if  only  be 
cause  it  was  the  occasion  of  your  letter. 

I  do  believe  that  the  outward  and  the  inward 
life  correspond  ;  that  if  any  should  succeed  to  live 
a  higher  life,  others  would  not  know  of  it ;  that 
difference  and  distance  are  one.  To  set  about 
living  a  true  life  is  to  go  a  journey  to  a  distant 
country,  gradually  to  find  o^selves  surrounded 
by  new  scenes  and  men  ;  and  as  long  as  the  old 
are  around  me,  I  know  that  I  am  not  in  any  true 
sense  living  a  new  or  a  better  life.  The  outward 
is  only  the  outside  of  that  which  is  within.  Men 
are  not  concealed  under  habits,  but  are  revealed 
by  them  ;  they  are  their  true  clothes.  I  care  not 
how  curious  a  reason  they  may  give  for  their  abid 
ing  by  them.  Circumstances  are  not  rigid  and 
unyielding,  but  our  habits  are  rigid.  We  are 
apt  to  speak  vaguely  sometimes,  as  if  a  divine  life 
were  to  be  grafted  on  to  or  built  over  this  present 
as  a  suitable  foundation.  This  might  do  if  we 
could  so  build  over  our  old  life  as  to  exclude  from 
it  all  the  warmth  of  our  affection,  and  addle  it,  as 
the  thrush  builds  over  the  cuckoo's  egg,  and  lays 
her  own  atop,  and  hatches  that  only ;  but  the  fact 


LETTERS.  43 

is,  we  —  so  there  is  the  partition  —  hatch  them 
both,  and  the  cuckoo's  always  by  a  day  first,  and 
that  young  bird  crowds  the  young  thrushes  out  of 
the  nest.  No.  Destroy  the  cuckoo's  egg,  or 
build  a  new  nest. 

Change  is  change.  No  new  life  occupies  the 
old  bodies  ;  —  they  decay.  It  is  born,  and  grows, 
and  flourishes.  Men  very  pathetically  inform  the 
old,  accept  and  wear  it.  Why  put  up  with  the 
almshouse  when  you  may  go  to  Heaven  ?  It  is 
embalming,  — no  more.  Let  alone  your  ointments 
and  your  linen  swathes,  and  go  into  an  infant's 
body.  You  see  in  the  catacombs  of  Egypt  the 
result  of  that  experiment,  —  that  is  the  end  of  it. 

I  do  belie ve  in  simplicity.  It  is  astonishing  a.s~~~J 
well  as  sad,  how  many  trivial  affairs  even  the 
wisest  man  thinks  he  must  attend  to  in  a  day ; 
how  singular  an  affair  he  thinks  he  must  omit. 
When  the  mathematician  would  solve  a  difficult 
problem,  he  first  frees  the  equation  of  all  encum 
brances,  and  reduces  it  to  its  simplest  terms.  So 
simplify  the  problem  of  life,  distinguish  the  neces 
sary  and  the  real.  Probe  the  earth  to  see  where 
your  main  roots  run.  I  would  stand  upon  facts. 
Why  not  see,  —  use  our  eyes  ?  Do  men  know 
nothing?  I  know  many  men  who,  in  common 
things,  are  not  to  be  deceived ;  who  trust  no 
moonshine  ;  who  count  their  money  correctly,  and 
know  how  to  invest  it ;  who  are  said  to  be  pru 
dent  and  knowing,  who  yet  will  stand  at  a  desk  the 


44  LETTERS. 

greater  part  of  their  lives,  as  cashiers  in  banks, 
and  glimmer  and  rust  and  finally  go  out  there. 
If  they  know  anything,  what  under  the  sun  do 
they  do  that  for  ?  Do  they  know  what  bread  is  ? 
or  what  it  is  for  ?  Do  they  know  what  life  is  ? 
If  they  knew  something,  the  places  which  know 
them  now  would  know  them  no  more  forever^J 

This,  our  respectable  daily  life,  in  which  the 
man  of  common  sense,  the  Englishman  of  the 
world,  stands  so  squarely,  and  on  which  our  insti 
tutions  are  founded,  is  in  fact  the  veriest  illusion, 
and  will  vanish  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision ; 
but  that  faint  glimmer  of  reality  which  sometimes 
illuminates  the  darkness  of  daylight  for  all  men, 
reveals  something  more  solid  and  enduring  than 
adamant,  which  is  in  fact  the  corner-stone  of  the 
world. 

.Men  cannot  conceive  of  a  state  of  things  so  fail- 
that  it  cannot  be  realized.  Can  any  man  honestly 
consult  his  experience  and  say  that  it  is  so  ?  Have 
we  any  facts  to  appeal  to  when  we  say  that  our 
dreams  are  premature  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a 
man  who  had  striven  all  his  life  faithfully  and 
singly  toward  an  object  and  in  no  measure  ob 
tained  it  ?  If  a  man  constantly  aspires,  is  he  not 
elevated  ?  Did  ever  a  man  try  heroism,  magna 
nimity,  truth,  sincerity,  and  find  that  there  was 
no  advantage  in  them  ?  that  it  was  a  vain  en 
deavor  ?  Of  course  we  do  not  expect  that  our  para 
dise  will  be  a  garden.  I  We  know  not  what  we  ask. 


LETTERS.  45 

To  look  at  literature  ;  —  how  many  fine  thoughts 
has  every  man  had !  how  few  fine  thoughts  are 
expressed  !  Yet  we  never  have  a  fantasy  so 
subtile  and  ethereal,  but  that  talent  merely,  with 
more  resolution  and  faithful  persistency,  after  a 
thousand  failures,  might  fix  and  engrave  it  in  dis 
tinct  and  enduring  words,  and  we  should  see  that 
our  dreams  are  the  solidest  facts  that  we  know. 
But  I  speak  not  of  dreams. 

What  can  be  expressed  in  words  can  be  ex 
pressed  in  life. 

My  actual  life  is  a  fact,  in  view  of  which  I  have 
no  occasion  to  congratulate  myself;  but  for  my 
faith  and  aspiration  I  have  respect.  It  is  from 
these  that  I  speak.  Every  man's  position  is  in  fact 
too  simple  to  be  described.  I  have  sworn  no  oath. 
I  have  no  designs  on  society,  or  Nature,  or  God. 
I  am  simply  what  I  am,  or  I  begin  to  be  that.  I 
live  in  the  present.  I  only  remember  the  past, 
and  anticipate  the  future.  I  love  to  live.  ( I  love 
reform  better  than  its  modes.  There  is  no  history 
of  how  bad  became  better.  I  believe  something, 
and  there  is  nothing  else  but  that.  I  know  that  I 
am.  I  know  that  another  is  who  knows  more 
than  I,  who  takes  interest  in  me,  whose  creature, 
and  yet  whose  kindred,  in  one  sense,  am  I.  I 
know  that  the  enterprise  is  worthy.  I  know  that 
things  work  well.  I  have  heard  no  bad  news. 

As  for  positions,  combinations,  and  details,  — 
what  are  they  ?  In  clear  weather,  when  we 


4b  LETTERS. 

look  into  the  heavens,  what  do  we  see  but  the  sky 
and  the  sun  ? 

'  If  you  would  convince  a  man  that  he  does 
wrong,  do  right.  But  do  not  care  to  convince 
him.  Men  will  believe  what  they  see.  Let  them 
see. 

Pursue,  keep  up  with,  circle  round  and  round 
your  life,  as  a  dog  does  his  master's  chaise.  Do 
what  you  love.  Know  your  own  bone :  gnaw  at 
it,  bury  it,  unearth  it,  and  gnaw  it  still.  Do  riot 
be  too  moral.  You  may  cheat  yourself  out  of 
much  life  so.  Aim  above  morality.  Be  not 
simply  good ;  be  good  for  something.  All  fables, 
indeed,  have  their  morals  ;  but  the  innocent  enjoy 
the  story.  Let  nothing  come  between  you  and 
the  light.  Respect  men  as  brothers  only.  When 
you  travel  to  the  Celestial  City,  carry  no  letter  of 
introduction.  When  you  knock,  ask  to  see  God, 
—  none  of  the  servants.  In  what  concerns  you 
much,  do  not  think  that  you  have  companions  : 
know  that  you  are  alone  in  the  world./ 

Thus  I  write  at  random.  I  need  to  see  you, 
and  I  trust  I  shall,  to  correct  my  mistakes.  Per 
haps  you  have  some  oracles  for  me. 

HENRY  THOKEAU. 


(\J 


LETTERS.  47 

K 


K 


TO   ME.  B. 


CONCORD,  May  2,  1848. 

"  We  must  have  our  bread."  But  what  is 
our  bread  ?  Is  it  baker's  bread  ?  Methinks  it 
should  be  very  home-made  bread.  What  is  our 
meat  ?  Is  it  butcher's  meat  ?  What  is  that 
which  we  must  have  ?  Is  that  bread  which  we 
are  now  earning  sweet  ?  Is  it  not  bread  which  has 
been  suffered  to  sour,  and  then  been  sweetened 
with  an  alkali,  which  has  undergone  the  vinous, 
acetous,  and  sometimes  the  putrid  fermentation, 
and  then,  been  whitened  with  vitriol  ?  Is  this  the 
bread  which  we  must  have  ?  Man  must  earn  his 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  truly,  but  also 
by  the  sweat  of  his  brain  within  his  brow.  The 
body  can  feed  the  body  only.  I  have  tasted  but 
little  bread  in  my  life.  It  has  been  mere  grub 
and  provender  for  the  most  part.  Of  bread  that 
nourished  the  brain  and  the  heart,  scarcely  any. 
There  is  absolutely  none  even  on  the  tables  of  the 
rich. 

There  is  not  one  kind  of  food  for  all  men.  You 
must  and  you  will  feed  those  faculties  which  you 
exercise.  The  laborer  whose  body  is  weary  does 
not  require  the  same  food  with  the  scholar  whose 
brain  is  weary.  Men  should  not  labor  foolishly 
like  brutes,  but  the  brain  and  the  body  should  al 
ways,  or  as  much  as  possible,  work  and  rest  to 
gether,  and  then  the  work  will  be  of  such  a  kind 


48  LETTERS. 

that  when  the  body  is  hungry  the  brain  will  bo 
hungry  also,  and  the  same  food  will  suffice  for 
both ;  otherwise  the  food  which  repairs  the  waste 
energy  of  the  over-wrought  body  will  oppress  the 
sedentary  brain,  and  the  degenerate  scholar  will 
come  to  esteem  all  food  vulgar,  and  all  getting  a 
living  drudgery. 

How  shall  we  earn  our  bread  is  a  grave  ques 
tion  ;  yet  it  is  a  sweet  and  inviting  question.  Let 
us  not  shirk  it,  as  is  usually  done.  It  is  the  most  im 
portant  and  practical  question  which  is  put  to  man. 
Let  us  not  answer  it  hastily.  Let  us  not  be  con 
tent  to  get  our  bread  in  some  gross,  careless,  and 
hasty  manner.  Some  men  go  a-hunting,  some 
a-fishing,  some  a-gaming,  some  to  war ;  but  none 
have  so  pleasant  a  time  as  they  who  in  earnest  seek 
to  earn  their  bread.  It  is  true  actually  as  it  is  true 
really  ;  it  is  true  materially  as  it  is  true  spirit 
ually,  that  they  who  seek  honestly  and  sincerely, 
with  all  their  hearts  and  lives  and  strength,  to  earn 
their  bread,  do  earn  it,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  very 
sweet  to  them.  A  very  little  bread,  —  a  very 
few  crumbs  are  enough,  if  it  be  of  the  right  qual 
ity,  for  it  is  infinitely  nutritious.  Let  each  man, 
then,  earn  at  least  a  crumb  of  bread  for  his  body 
before  he  dies,  and  know  the  taste  of  it,  —  that  it 
is  identical  with  the  bread  of  life,  and  that  they 
both  go  down  at  one  swallow. 

Our  bread  need. not  ever  be  sour  or  hard  to 
digest.  What  Nature  is  to  the  mind  she  is  also  to 


LETTERS.  49 

the  body.  As  she  feeds  my  imagination,  she  will 
feed  my  body  ;  for  what  she  says  she  means,  and 
is  ready  to  do.  She  is  not  simply  beautiful  to  the 
poet's  ey&.  Not  only  the  rainbow  and  sunset  are 
beautiful,  but  to  be  fed  and  clothed,  sheltered  and 
warmed  aright,  are  equally  beautiful  and  inspiring. 
There  is  not  necessarily  any  gross  and  ugly  fact 
which  may  not  be  eradicated  from  the  life  of  man. 
We  should  endeavor  practically  in  our  lives  to 
correct  all  the  defects  which  our  imagination  de 
tects.  The  heavens  are  as  deep  as  our  aspira 
tions  are  high.  So  high  as  a  tree  aspires  to  grow, 
so  high  it  will  find  an  atmosphere  suited  to  it. 
Every  man  should  stand  for  a  force  which  is  per 
fectly  irresistible.  How  can  any  man  be  weak 
who  dares  to  be  at  all  ?  Even  the  tenderest  plants 
force  their  way  up  through  the  hardest  earth,  and 
the  crevices  of  rocks ;  but  a  man  no  material 
power  can  resist.  What  a  wedge,  what  a  beetle, 
what  a  catapult,  is  an  earnest  man  !  What  can 
resist  him  ? 

It  is  a  momentous  fact  that  a  man  may  be  good, 
or  he  may  be  bad;  his  life  may  be  true,  or  it  may 
be  false ;  it  may  be  either  a  shame  or  a  glory  to 
him.  The  good  man  builds  himself  up;  the  bad 
man  destroys  himself. 

But  whatever  we  do  we  must  do  confidently  (if 
we  are  timid,  let  us,  then,  act  timidly),  not  ex 
pecting  more  light,  but  having  light  enough.  If 
we  confidently  expect  more,  then  let  us  wait  for  it. 

3  D 


50  LETTERS. 

But  what  is  this  which  we  have  ?  Have  we  not 
already  waited  ?  Is  this  the  beginning  of  time  ? 
Is  there  a  man  who  does  not  see  clearly  beyond, 
though  only  a  hair's  breadth  beyond  where  he  at 
any  time  stands  ? 

If  one  hesitates  in  his  path,  let  him  not  proceed. 
Let  him  respect  his  doubts,  for  doubts,  too,  may 
have  some  divinity  in  them.  That  we  have  but 
little  faith  is  not  sad,  but  that  we  have  but  little 
faithfulness.  By  faithfulness  faith  is  earned.  When, 
in  the  progress  of  a  life,  a  man  swerves,  though 
only  by  an  angle  infinitely  small,  from  his  proper 
and  allotted  path  (and  this  is  never  done  quite  un 
consciously  even  at  first ;  in  fact,  that  was  his 
broad  and  scarlet  sin,  —  ah,  he  knew  of  it  more 
than  he  can  tell),  then  the  drama  of  his  life  turns 
to  tragedy,  and  makes  haste  to  its  fifth  act.  When 
once  we  thus  fall  behind  ourselves,  there  is  no  ac 
counting  for  the  obstacles  which  rise  up  in  our 
path,  and  no  one  is  so  wise  as  to  advise,  and  no 
one  so  powerful  as  to  aid  us  while  we  abide  on 
that  ground.  Such  are  cursed  with  duties,  and 
the  neglect  of  their  duties.  For  such  the  deca 
logue  was  made,  and  other  far  more  voluminous 
and  terrible  codes. 

These  departures,  —  who  have  not  made  them  ? 
—  for  they  are  as  faint  as  the  parallax  of  a  fixed 
star,  and  at  the  commencement  we  say  thev  are 
nothing,  —  that  is,  they  originate  in  a  kind  of 
sleep  and  forgetfulness  of  the  soul  when  it  is 


LETTERS.  51 

naught.  A  man  cannot  be  too  circumspect  in 
order  to  keep  in  the  straight  road,  and  be  sure 
that  he  sees  all  that  he  may  at  any  time  see,  that 
so  he  may  distinguish  his  true  path. 

You  ask  if  there  is  no  doctrine  of  sorrow  in  my 
philosophy.  Of  acute  sorrow  I  suppose  that  I 
know  comparatively  little.  My  saddest  and  most 
genuine  sorrows  are  apt  to  be  but  transient  re 
grets.  The  place  of  sorrow  is  supplied,  perchance, 
by  a  certain  hard  and  proportionably  barren  in 
difference.  I  am  of  kin  to  the  sod,  and  partake 
largely  of  its  dull  patience,  —  in  winter  expecting 
the  sun  of  spring. 

In  my  cheapest  moments  I  am  apt  to  think  that 
it  is  not  my  business  to  be  "  seeking  the  spirit," 
but  as  much  its  business  to  be  seeking  me. 

I  know  very  well  what  Goethe  meant  when  he 
said  that  he  never  had  a  chagrin,  but  he  made  a 
poem  out  of  it.  I  have  altogether  too  much 
patience  of  this  kind.  I  am  too  easily  contented 
with  a  slight  and  almost  animal  happiness.  My 
happiness  is  a  good  deal  like  that  of  the  wood- 
chucks. 

Methinks  I  am  never  quite  committed,  never 
wholly  the  creature  of  my  moods,  being  always  to 
some  extent  their  critic.  My  only  integral  ex 
perience  is  in  my  vision.  I  see,  perchance,  with 
more  integrity  than  I  feel. 

But  I  need  not  tell  you  what  manner  of  man  I 
am,  —  my  virtues  or  my  vices.  You  can  guess  if 


52  LETTERS. 

it  is  worth  the  while  ;  and  I  do  not  discriminate 
them  well. 

I  do  not  write  this  time  at  my  hut  in  the  woods. 
I  am  at  present  living  with  Mrs.  Emerson,  whose 
house  is  an  old  home  of  mine,  for  company  during 
Mr.  E.'s  absence. 

You  will  perceive  that  I  am  as  often  talking  to 
myself,  perhaps,  as  speaking  to  you. 

HENRY  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  August  10,  1849. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  write  now  chiefly  to  say,  before  it  is  too  late, 
that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  Concord,  and 
will  give  you  a  chamber,  &c.,  in  my  father's  house, 
and  as  much  of  my  poor  company  as  you  can 
bear. 

I  am  in  too  great  haste  this  time  to  speak  to 
your,  or  out  of  my,  condition.  I  might  say,  — 
you  might  say,  —  comparatively  speaking,  be  not 
anxious  to  avoid  poverty.  In  this  way  the  wealth 
of  the  universe  may  be  securely  invested.  What 
a  pity  if  we  do  not  live  this  short  time  according 
to  the  laws  of  the  long  time,  —  the  eternal  laws ! 
Let  us  see  that  we  stand  erect  here,  and  do  not 
lie  along  by  our  whole  length  in  the  dirt.  Let  our 


LETTERS.  53 

meanness  be  our  footstool,  not  our  cushion.  In 
the  midst  of  this  labyrinth  let  us  live  a  thread  of 
life.  We  must  act  with  so  rapid  and  resistless 
a  purpose  in  one  direction,  that  our  vices  will 
necessarily  trail  behind.  The  nucleus  of  a  comet 
is  almost  a  star.  Was  there  ever  a  genuine  dilem 
ma?  The  laws  of  earth  are  for  the  feet,  or  in 
ferior  man  ;  the  laws  of  heaven  are  for  the  head, 
or  superior  man  ;  the  latter  are  the  former  sub 
limed  and  expanded,  even  as  radii  from  the  earth's 
centre  go  on  diverging  into  space.  Happy  the 
man  who  observes  the  heavenly  and  the  terres 
trial  law  in  just  proportion  ;  whose  every  faculty, 
from  the  soles  of  his  feet  to  the  crown  of  his  head, 
obeys  the  law  of  its  level ;  who  neither  stoops  nor 
goes  on  tiptoe,  but  lives  a  balanced  life,  acceptable 
to  nature  and  to  God. 

These  things  I  say  ;  other  things  I  do. 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  did  not  receive  my 
book  earlier.  I  addressed  it  and  left  it  in  Munroe's 
shop  to  be  sent  to  you  immediately,  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  May,  before  a  copy  had  been  sold. 

Will   you   remember   me   to   Mr.   when 

you  see  him  next :  he  is  well  remembered  by 

HENRY  THOREAU. 

I  still  owe  you  a  worthy  answer. 


54  LETTERS. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  November  20.  1S49. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  have  not  forgotten  that  I  am  your  debtor. 
When  I  read  over  your  letters,  as  I  have  just 
done,  I  feel  that  I  am  unworthy  to  have  received 
or  to  answer  them,  though  they  are  addressed,  as 
I  would  have  them,  to  the  ideal  of  me.  It  be 
hoves  me,  if  I  would  reply,  to  speak  out  of  the 
rarest  part  of  myself. 

At  present  I  am  subsisting  on  certain  wild  fla 
vors  which  nature  wafts  to  me,  which  unaccount 
ably  sustain  me,  and  make  my  apparently  poor 
life  rich.  Within  a  year  my  walks  have  extended 
themselves,  and  almost  every  afternoon  (I  read, 
or  write,  or  make  pencils  in  the  forenoon,  and  by 
the  last  means  get  a  living  for  my  body)  I  visit 
some  new  hill,  or  pond,  or  wood,  many  miles  dis 
tant.  I  am  astonished  at  the  wonderful  retirement 
through  which  I  move,  rarely  meeting  a  man  in 
these  excursions,  never  seeing  one  similarly  en 
gaged,  unless  it  be  my  companion,  when  I  have 
one.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  of  all  the  human 
inhabitants  of  nature  hereabouts,  only  we  two  have 
leisure  to  admire  and  enjoy  our  inheritance. 

"  Free  in  this  world  as  the  birds  in  the  air,  dis-- 
engaged  from  every  kind  of  chains,  those  who 
have  practised  the  yoga  gather  in  Brahma  the 
certain  fruit  of  their  works." 


LETTERS.  55 

Depend  upon  it,  that,  rude  and  careless  as  I  am, 
I  would  fain  practise  the  yoga  faithfully. 
/'  "  The  yogi,  absorbed  in  contemplation,  con 
tributes  in  his  degree  to  creation :  he  breathes  a 
divine  perfume,  he  hears  wonderful  things.  Di 
vine  forms  traverse  him  without  tearing  him,  and, 
united  to  the  nature  which  is  proper  to  him,  he 
goes,  he  acts  as  animating  original  matter." 

To  some  extent,  and  at  rare  intervals,  even  I 
am  a  yogi. 

I  know  little  about  the  affairs  of  Turkey,  but  I 
am  sure  that  I  know  something  about  barberries 
and  chestnuts,  of  which  I  have  collected  a  store 
this  fall.  When  I  go  to  see  my  neighbor,  he  will 
formally  communicate  to  me  the  latest  news  from 
Turkey,  which  he  read  in  yesterday's  mail,  — 
"  Now  Turkey  by  this  time  looks  determined,  and 

Lord    Palmerston  — "     Why,    I  would  rather 

talk  of  the  bran,  which,  unfortunately,  was  sifted 
out  of  my  bread  this  morning,  and  thrown  away. 
It  is  a  fact  which  lies  nearer  to  me.  The  news 
paper  gossip  with  which  our  hosts  abuse  our  ears 
is  as  far  from  a  true  hospitality  as  the  viands 
which  they  set  before  us.  We  did  not  need  them 
to  feed  our  bodies,  and  the  news  can  be  bought  for 
a  penny.  We  want  the  inevitable  news,  be  it  sad 
-  or  cheering,  wherefore  and  by  what  means  they 
are  extant  this  new  day.  If  they  are  well,  let 
them  whistle  and  dance  ;  if  they  are  dyspeptic,  it 
is  their  duty  to  complain,  that  so  they  may  in  any 


56  LETTEKS. 

case  be  entertaining.  If  words  were  invented  to 
conceal  thought,  I  think  that  newspapers  are  a 
great  improvement  or  a  bad  invention.  Do  not 
[ suffer  your  life  to  be  taken  by  newspapers. 

I  thank  you  for  your  hearty  appreciation  of  my 
book.  I  am  glad  to  have  had  such  a  long  talk 
with  you,  and  that  you  had  patience  to  listen  to 
me  to  the  end.  I  think  that  I  had  the  advantage 
of  you,  for  I  chose  my  own  mood,  and  in  one 
sense  your  mood  too,  —  that  is,  a  quiet  and  atten 
tive  reading  mood.  Such  advantage  has  the  writer 
over  the  talker.  I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not 
come  to  Concord  in  your  vacation.  Is  it  not  time 
for  another  vacation  ?  I  am  here  yet,  and  Con 
cord  is  here. 

You  will  have  found  out  by  this  time  who  it  is 
that  writes  this,  and  will  be  glad  to  have  you  write 
to  him,  without  his  subscribing  himself 

HENRY  D.  TIIOREAU. 

P.  S.  —  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  you, 
that,  as  you  will  perceive,  I  have  to  speak,  as  it 
were,  in  vacuo,  as  if  I  were  sounding  hollowly  for 
an  echo,  and  it  did  not  make  much  odds  what 
kind  of  a  sound  I  made.  But  the  gods  do  not 
hear  any  rude  or  discordant  sound,  as  we  learn 
from  the  echo ;  and  I  know  that  the  nature  to 
ward  which  I  launch  these  sounds  is  so  rich,  that 
it  will  modulate  anew  and  wonderfully  improve 
my  rudest  strain. 


LETTERS.  57 

TO    MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  April  3,  1850. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  thank  you  for  your  letter,  and  I  will  endeavor 
to  record  some  of  the  thoughts  which  it  suggests^ 
whether  pertinent  or  not.  You  speak  of  poverty 
and  dependence.  Who  are  poor  and  dependent  ? 
Who  are  rich  and  independent  ?  When  was  it 
that  men  agreed  to  respect  the  appearance  and 
not  the  reality  ?  Why  should  the  appearance 
appear?  Are  we  well  acquainted,  then,  with  the 
reality  ?  There  is  none  who  does  not  lie  hourly 
in  the  respect  he  pays  to  false  appearance.  How 
sweet  it  would  be  to  treat  men  and  things,  for 
an  hour,  for  just  what  they  are !  We  wonder 
that  the  sinner  does  not  confess  his  sin.  When 
we  are  weary  with  travel,  we  lay  down  our  load 
and  rest  by  the  wayside.  So,  when  we  are  weary 
with  the  burden  of  life,  why  do  we  not  lay  down 
this  load  of  falsehoods  which  we  have  volunteered 
to  sustain,  and  be  refreshed  as  never  mortal  was  ? 
Let  the  beautiful  laws  prevail.  Let  us  not  weary 
ourselves  by  resisting  them.  When  we  would 
rest  #ur  bodies  we  cease  to  support  them  ;  we  re 
cline  on  the  lap  of  earth.  So,  when  we  would 
rest  our  spirits,  we  must  recline  on  the  Great 
Spirit.  Let  things  alone  ;  let  them  weigh  what 
they  will ;  let  them  soar  or  fall.  To  succeed  in 
letting  only  one  thing  alone  in  a  winter  morning, 

3* 


58  LETTERS. 

if  it  be  only  one  poor,  frozen-thawed  apple  that 
hangs  on  a  tree,  what  a  glorious  achievement! 
Methinks  it  lightens  through  the  dusky  universe. 
What  an  infinite  wealth  we  have  discovered ! 
God  reigns,  i.  e.  when  we  take  a  liberal  view, 

—  when  a  liberal  view  is  presented  us. 

Let  God  alone  if  need  be.  Methinks,  if  I 
loved  him  more,  I  should  keep  him,  —  I  should 
keep  myself  rather,  —  at  a  more  respectful  dis 
tance.  It  is  not  when  I  am  going  to  meet  him, 
but  when  I  am  just  turning  away  and  leaving  him 
alone,  that  I  discover  that  God  is.  I  say,  God.  I 
am  not  sure  that  that  is  the  name.  You  will 
know  whom  I  mean. 

If  for  a  moment  we  make  way  with  our  petty 
selves,  wish  no  ill  to  anything,  apprehend  no  ill, 
cease  to  be  but  as  the  crystal  which  reflects  a  ray, 

—  what  shall  we  not  reflect!     What  a  universe 
will  appear  crystallized  and  radiant  around  us ! 

I  should  say,  let  the  muse  lead  the  muse,  —  let 
the  understanding  lead  the  understanding,  though 
in  any  case  it  is  the  farthest  forward  which  leads 
them  both.  If  the  muse  accompany,  she  is  no 
muse,  but  an  amusement.  The  muse  should  lead 
like  a  star  which  is  very  far  off ;  but  that  doe^s  not 
imply  that  we  are  to  follow  foolishly,  falling  into 
sloughs  and  over  precipices,  for  it  is  not  foolish 
ness,  but  understanding,  which  is  to  follow,  which 
the  muse  is  appointed  to  lead,  as  a  fit  guide  of  a 
fit  follower. 


LETTERS.  59 

-^ 

Will  you  live  ?  or  will  you  be  embalmed  ?  Will 
you  live,  though  it  be  astride  of  a  sunbeam  ;  or 
will  you  repose  safely  in  the  catacombs  for  a  thou 
sand  years  ?  In  the  former  case,  the  worst  acci 
dent  that  can  happen  is  that  you  may  break  your 
neck.  Will  you  break  your  heart,  your  soul,  to 
save  your  neck  ?  Necks  and  pipe-stems  are 
fated  to  be  broken.  Men  make  a  great  ado 
about  the  folly  of  demanding  too  much  of  life  (or 
of  eternity?),  and  of  endeavoring  to  live  accord 
ing  to  that  demand.  It  is  much  ado  about  noth 
ing.  No  harm  ever  came  from  that  quarter.  I 
am  not  afraid  that  I  shall  exaggerate  the  value 
and  significance  of  life,  but  that  I  shall  not  be  up 
to  the  occasion  which  it  is.  I  shall  be  sorry  to 
remember  that  I  was  there,  but  noticed  noth 
ing  remarkable,  —  not  so  much  as  a  prince  in 
disguise  ;  lived  in  the  golden  age  a  hired  man  ; 
visited  Olympus  even,  but  fell  asleep  after  dinner, 
and  did  not  hear  the  conversation  of  the  gods.  I 
lived  in  Judaea  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  but  I 
never  knew  that  there  was  such  a  one  as  Christ 
among  my  contemporaries  !  If  there  is  anything 
more  glorious  than  a  congress  of  men  a-framing 
or  amending  of  a  constitution  going  on,  which  I 
suspect  there  is,  I  desire  to  see  the  morning 
papers.  I  am  greedy  of  the  faintest  rumor,  though 
it  were  got  by  listening  at  the  key-hole.  I  will 
dissipate  myself  in  that  direction,  j 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  find  what  I  have 


60  LETTERS. 

said  on  Friendship  worthy  of  attention.  I  wish  I 
could  have  the  benefit  of  your  criticism ;  it  would 
be  a  rare  help  to  me.  Will  you  not  communicate 

it? 

HENRY  D.  THOKEAU 


TO   ME.  B. 

CONCORD,  May  28    1850. 

MR.  B :  — 

"  I  never  found  any  contentment  in  the  life 
which  the  newspapers  record,"  — anything  of  more 
value  than  the  cent  which  they  cost.  Content 
ment  in  being  covered  with  dust  an  inch  deep ! 
We  who  walk  the  streets,  and  hold  time  together, 
are  but  the  refuse  of  ourselves,  and  that  life  is  for 
the  shells  of  us,  —  of  our  body  and  our  mind,  — 
for  our  scurf,  —  a  thoroughly  scurvy  life.  It  is 
coffee  made  of  coffee-grounds  the  twentieth  time, 
which  was  only  coffee  the  first  time,  —  while  the 
living  water  leaps  and  sparkles  by  our  doors.  I 
know  some  who,  in  their  chanty,  give  their  coffee- 
grounds  to  the  poor  !  We,  demanding  news,  and 
putting  up  with  such  news  !  Is  it  a  new  conven 
ience,  or  a  new  accident,  or,  rather,  a  new  per 
ception  of  the  truth  that  we  want ! 

You  say  that  "  the  serene  hours  in  which  friend 
ship,  books,  nature,  thought,  seem  alone  primary 


LETTERS.  61 

considerations,  visit  you  but  faintly."  Is  not  the 
attitude  of  expectation  somewhat  divine  ?  —  a  sort 
of  home-made  divineness  ?  Does  it  not  compel  a 
kind  of  sphere-music  to  attend  on  it?  And  do 
not  its  satisfactions  merge  at  length,  by  insensible 
degrees,  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  thing  expected  ? 

What  if  I  should  forget  to  write  about  my  not 
writing  ?  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  make  that 
a  theme.  It  is  as  if  I  had  written  every  day.  It 
is  as  if  I  had  never  written  before.  I  wonder  that 
you  think  so  much  about  it,  for  not  writing  is  the 
most  like  writing,  in  my  case,  of  anything  I  know. 

Why  will  you  not  relate  to  me  your  dream  ? 
That  would  be  to  realize  it  somewhat.  You  tell 
me  that  you  dream,  but  not  what  you  dream.  I 
can  guess  what  comes  to  pass.  So  do  the  frogs 
dream.  Would  that  I  knew  what.  I  have  never 
found  out  whether  they  are  awake  or  asleep,  — 
whether  it  is  day  or  night  with  them. 

I  am  preaching,  mind  you,  to  bare  walls,  that 
is,  to  myself;  and  if  you  have  chanced  to  come 
in  and  occupy  a  pew,  do  not  think  that  my  re 
marks  are  directed  at  you  particularly,  and  so 
slam  the  seat  in  disgust.  This  discourse  was 
written  long  before  these  exciting  times. 

Some  absorbing  employment  on  your  higher 
ground,  —  your  upland  farm,  —  whither  no  cart- 
path  leads,  but  where  you  mount  alone  with  your 
hoe,  —  where  the  life  everlasting  grows  ;  there 
you  raise  a  crop  which  needs  not  to  be  brought 


62  LETTERS. 

down  into  the  valley  to  a  market ;  which  you 
barter  for  heavenly  products. 

Do  you  separate  distinctly  enough  the  support 
of  your  body,  from  that  of  your  essence  ?  By 
how  distinct  a  course  commonly  are  these  two 
ends  attained  !  Not  that  they  should  not  be  at 
tained  by  one  and  the  same  means,  —  that,  in 
deed,  is  the  rarest  success,  —  but  there  is  no  half 
and  half  about  it. 

I  shall  be  glad  to  read  my  lecture  to  a  small 
audience  in  Worcester  such  as  you  describe,  and 
will  only  require  that  my  expenses  be  paid.  If 
only  the  parlor  be  large  enough  for  an  echo,  and 
the  audience  will  embarrass  themselves  with  hear 
ing  as  much  as  the  lecturer  would  otherwise  em 
barrass  himself  with  reading.  But  I  warn  you 
that  this  is  no  better  calculated  for  a  promiscuous 
audience  than  the  last  two  which  I  read  to  you. 
It  requires,  in  every  sense,  a  concordant  audience. 

I  will  come  on  next  and  spend  Sunday 

with  you  if  you  wish  it.  Say  so  if  you  do. 

"  Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring." 

Be  not  deterred  by  melancholy  on  the  path  which 
leads  to  immortal  health  and  joy.  When  they 
tasted  of  the  water  of  the  river  over  which  they 
were  to  go,  they  thought  it  tasted  a  little  bitter 
ish  to  the  palate,  but  it  proved  sweeter  when  it 

was  down. 

H.  D.  T. 


LETTERS.  b6 

TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  August  9,  1850. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  received  your  letter  just  as  I  was  rushing  to 
Fire  Island  beach  to  recover  what  remained  of 
Margaret  Fuller,  and  read  it  on  the  way.  That 
event  and  its  train,  as  much  as  anything,  have  pre 
vented  my  answering  it  before.  It  is  wisest  to 
speak  when  you  are  spoken  to.  I  will  now  en 
deavor  to  reply,  at  the  risk  of  having  nothing  to 
say. 

I  find  that  actual  events,  notwithstanding  the 
singular  prominence  which  we  all  allow  them,  are 
far  less  real  than  the  creations  of  my  imagination. 
They  are  truly  visionary  and  insignificant,  —  all 
that  we  commonly  call  life  and  death,  —  and  affect 
me  less  than  my  dreams.  This  petty  stream  which 
from  time  to  time  swells  and  carries  away  the 
mills  and  bridges  of  our  habitual  life,  and  that 
mightier  stream  or  ocean  on  which  we  securely 
float,  —  what  makes  the  difference  between  them  ? 
I  have  in  my  pocket  a  button  which  I  ripped  off 
the  coat  of  the  Marquis  of  Ossoli,  on  the  sea-shore, 
the  other  day.  Held  up,  it  intercepts  the  light, 
—  an  actual  button,  —  and  yet  all  the  life  it  is 
connected  with  is  less  substantial  to  me,  and  inter 
ests  me  less,  than  my  faintest  dream.  Our 
thoughts  are  the  epochs  in  our  lives:  all  else  is 
but  as  a  journal  of  the  winds  that  blew  while  we 
were  here. 


64  LETTERS. 

I  say  to  myself,  Do  a  little  more  of  that  work 
which  you  have  confessed  to  be  good.  You  are 
neither  satisfied  nor  dissatisfied  with  yourself,  with 
out  reason.  Have  you  not  a  thinking  faculty  of 
inestimable  value  ?  If  there  is  an  experiment 
which  you  would  like  to  try,  try  it.  Do  not  en 
tertain  doubts  if  they  are  not  agreeable  to  you. 
Remember  that  you  need  not  eat  unless  you  are 
hungry.  Do  not  read  the  newspapers.  Improve 
every  opportunity  to  be  melancholy.  As  for 
health,  consider  yourself  well.  Do  not  engage  to 
find  things  as  you  think  they  are.  Do  what  no 
body  else  can  do  for  you.  Omit  to  do  anything 
else.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  our  lives  respectable 
by  any  course  of  activity.  We  must  repeatedly 
withdraw  into  our  shells  of  thought,  like  the 
tortoise,  somewhat  helplessly ;  yet  there  is  more 
than  philosophy  in  that. 

Do  not  waste  any  reverence  on  my  attitude.  I 
merely  manage  to  sit  up  where  I  have  dropped.  I 
am  sure  that  my  acquaintances  mistake  me.  They 
ask  my  advice  on  high  matters,  but  they  do  not 
know  even  how  poorly  on 't  I  am  for  hats  and  shoes. 
I  have  hardly  a  shift.  Just  as  shabby  as  I  am  in 
my  outward  apparel,  ay,  and  more  lamentably 
shabby  am  I  in  my  inward  substance.  If  I  should 
turn  myself  inside  out,  my  rags  and  meanness 
would  indeed  appear.  I  am  something  to  him 
that  made  me,  undoubtedly,  but  not  much  to  any 
other  that  he  has  made. 


LETTERS.  65 

Would  it  not  be  worth  while  to  discover  nature 
in  Milton  ?  be  native  to  the  universe  ?  I,  too, 
love  Concord  best,  but  I  am  glad  when  I  discover, 
in  oceans  and  wildernesses  far  away,  the  material 
of  a  million  Concords :  indeed,  I  am  lost,  unless  I 
discover  them.  I  see  less  difference  between  a 
city  and  a  swamp  than  formerly.  It  is  a  swamp, 
however,  too  dismal  and  dreary  even  for  me, 
and  I  should  be  glad  if  there  were  fewer  owls,  and 
frogs,  and  mosquitoes  in  it.  I  prefer  ever  a  more 
cultivated  place,  free  from  miasma  and  crocodiles. 
I  am  so  sophisticated,  and  I  will  take  my  choice. 

As  for  missing  friends,  —  what  if  we  do  miss 
one  another  ?  have  we  not  agreed  on  a  rendez 
vous  ?  While  each  wanders  his  own  way  through 
the  wood,  without  anxiety,  ay,  with  serene  joy, 
though  it  be  on  his  hands  and  knees,  over  rocks 
and  fallen  trees,  he  cannot  but  be  in  the  right 
way.  There  is  no  wrong  way  to  him.  How  can 
he  be  said  to  miss  his  friend,  whom  the  fruits  still 
nourish  and  the  elements  sustain?  A  man  who 
missed  his  friend  at  a  turn,  went  on  buoyantly, 
dividing  the  friendly  air,  and  humming  a  tune  to 
himself,  ever  and  anon  kneeling  with  delight  to 
study  each  little  lichen  in  his  path,  and  scarcely 
made  three  miles  a  day  for  friendship.  'As  for 
conforming  outwardly,  and  living  your  own  life 
inwardly,  I  do  not  think  much  of  that.  Let  not 
your  right  hand  know  what  your  left  hand  does  in 
that  line  of  business.  It  will  prove  a  failure. 


66  LETTERS. 

Just  as  successfully  can  you  walk  against  a  sharp 
steel  edge  which  divides  you  cleanly  right  and 
left.  Do  you  wish  to  try  your  ability  to  resist 
distension  ?  It  is  a  greater  strain  than  any  soul 
can  long  endure.  When  you  get  God  to  pulling 
one  way,  and  the  devil  the  other,  each  having  his 
feet  well  braced,  —  to  say  nothing  of  the  con 
science  sawing  transversely,  —  almost  any  timber 
will  give  way._j/ 

I  do  not  dare  invite  you  earnestly  to  come  to 
Concord,  because  I  know  too  well  that  the  berries 
are  not  thick  in  my  fields,  and  we  should  have  to 
take  it  out  in  viewing  the  landscape.  But  come, 
on  every  account,  and  we  will  see  —  one  another. 

HEXRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  SOPHIA  THOEEAU. 

CONCORD,  July  13,  1852. 

DEAR  SOPHIA  :  — 

I  am  not  on  the  trail  of  any  elephants  or  mas 
todons,  but  have  succeeded  in  trapping  only  a  few 
ridiculous  mice,  which  cannot  feed  my  imagina 
tion.  I  have  become  sadly  scientific.  I  would 
rather  come  upon  the  vast  valley-like  "  spore " 
only  of  some  celestial  beast  which  this  world's 
woods  can  no  longer  sustain,  than  spring  my  net 
over  a  bushel  of  moles.  You  must  do  better  in 


LETTERS.  67 

those  woods  where  you  are.  You  must  have 
some  adventures  to  relate  and  repeat  for  years 
to  come,  which  will  eclipse  even  mother's  voyage 
to  Goldsborough  and  Sissiboo. 

Concord  is  just  as  idiotic  as  ever  in  relation  to 
the  spirits  and  their  knockings.  Most  people  here 
believe  in  a  spiritual  world  which  no  respectable 
junk  bottle,  which  had  not  met  with  a  slip, 
would  condescend  to  contain  even  a  portion  of  for 
a  moment,  —  whose  atmosphere  would  extinguish 
a  candle  let  down  into  it,  like  a  well  that  wants 
airing ;  in  spirits  which  the  very  bull-frogs  in  our 
meadows  would  blackball.  Their  evil  genius  is 
seeing  how  low  it  can  degrade  them.  The  hoot 
ing  of  owls,  the  croaking  of  frogs  is  celestial  wis 
dom  in  comparison.  If  I  could  be  brought  to 
believe  in  the  things  which  they  believe,  I  should 
make  haste  to  get  rid  of  my  certificate  of  stock  in 
this  and  the  next  world's  enterprises,  and  buy  a 
share  in  the  first  Immediate  Annihilation  Com 
pany  that  offered.  I  would  exchange  my  im 
mortality  for  a  glass  of  small  beer  this  hot  weather. 
Where  are  the  heathen  ?  Was  there  ever  any 
superstition  before?  And  yet  I  suppose  there 
may  be  a  vessel  this  very  moment  setting  sail 
from  the  coast  of  North  America  to  that  of  Af 
rica  with  a  missionary  on  board!  Consider  the 
dawn  and  the  sunrise,  —  the  rainbow  and  the 
evening,  —  the  words  of  Christ  and  the  aspira 
tions  of  all  the  saints !  Hear  music  !  see,  smell, 


68  LETTERS. 

taste,  feel,  hear,  —  anything,  —  and  then  hear 
these  idiots,  inspired  by  the  cracking  of  a  rest 
less  board,  humbly  asking,  "  Please,  Spirit,  if  you 
cannot  answer  by  knocks,  answer  by  tips  of  the 

table."  !!!!!! 

Yours, 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  July  21,  1852. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  am  too  stupidly  well  these  days  to  write  to 
you.  My  life  is  almost  altogether  outward,  —  all 
shell  and  no  tender  kernel ;  so  that  I  fear  the  re 
port  of  it  would  be  only  a  nut  for  you  to  crack, 
with  no  meat  in  it  for  you  to  eat.  Moreover,  you 
have  not  cornered  me  up,  and  I  enjoy  such  large 
liberty  in  writing  to  you,  that  I  feel  as  vague  as 
the  air.  However,  I  rejoice  to  hear  that  you  have 
attended  so  patiently  to  anything  which  I  have 
said  heretofore,  and  have  detected  any  truth  in 
it.  It  encourages  me  to  say  more,  —  not  in  this 
letter,  I  fear,  but  in  some  book  which  I  may  write 
one  day.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  I  am  as  much 
to  any  mortal  as  a  persistent  and  consistent  scare 
crow  is  to  a  farmer,  —  such  a  bundle  of  straw  in 
a  man's  clothing  as  I  am,  with  a  few  bits  of  tin  to 
sparkle  in  the  sun  dangling  about  me,  as  if  I  were 


LETTERS.  69 

hard  at  work  there  in  the  field.  However,  if  this 
kind  of  life  saves  any  man's  corn,  —  why,  he  is  the 
gainer.  I  am  not  afraid  that  you  will  flatter  me 
as  long  as  you  know  what  I  am,  as  well  as  what  I 
think,  or  aim  to  be,  and  distinguish  between  these 
two,  for  then  it  will  commonly  happen  that  if  you 
praise  the  last  you  will  condemn  the  first. 

I  remember  that  walk  to  Asneburnskit  very 
well,  —  a  fit  place  to  go  to  on  a  Sunday ;  one  of 
the  true  temples  of  the  earth.  A  temple,  you 
know,  was  anciently  "  an  open  place  without  a 
roof,"  whose  walls  served  merely  to  shut  out  the 
world  and  direct  the  mind  toward  heaven ;  but  a 
modern  meeting-house  shuts  out  the  heavens,  while 
it  crowds  the  world  into  still  closer  quarters. 
Best  of  all  is  it  when,  as  on  a  mountain-top,  you 
have  for  all  walls  your  own  elevation  and  deeps 
of  surrounding  ether.  The  partridge-berries,  wa 
tered  with  mountain  dews  which  are  gathered 
there,  are  more  memorable  to  me  than  the  words 
which  I  last  heard  from  the  pulpit  at  least ;  and 
for  my  part,  I  would  rather  look  toward  Rutland 
than  Jerusalem.  Rutland,  —  modern  town,  —  land 
of  ruts,  —  trivial  and  worn,  —  not  too  sacred,  — 
with  no  holy  sepulchre,  but  profane  green  fields 
and  dusty  roads,  and  opportunity  to  live  as  holy  a 
life  as  you  can,  —  where  the  sacredness,  if  there 
is  any,  is  all  in  yourself  and  not  in  the  place. 

I  fear  that  your  Worcester  people  do  not  often 
enough  go  to  the  hill- tops,  though,  as  I  am  told, 


70  LETTERS. 

the  springs  lie  nearer  to  the  surface  on  your  hills 
than  in  your  valleys.  They  have  the  reputation 
of  being  Free-Soilers.  Do  they  insist  on  a  free 
atmosphere  too,  that  is,  on  freedom  for  the  head 
or  brain  as  well  as  the  feet  ?  If  I  were  con 
sciously  to  join  any  party,  it  would  be  that  which 
is  the  most  free  to  entertain  thought. 

All  the  world  complain  now-a-days  of  a  press 
of  trivial  duties  and  engagements,  which  prevents 
their  employing  themselves  on  some  higher  ground 
they  know  of;  but,  undoubtedly,  if  they  were 
made  of  the  right  stuff  to  work  on  that  higher 
ground,  provided  they  were  released  from  all 
those  engagements,  they  would  now  at  once  fulfil 
the  superior  engagement,  and  neglect  all  the  rest,  as 
naturally  as  they  breathe.  They  would  never  be 
caught  saying  that  they  had  no  time  for  this,  when 
the  dullest  man  knows  that  this  is  all  that  he  has 
time  for.  No  man  who  acts  from  a  sense  of  duty 
ever  puts  the  lesser  duty  above  the  greater.  No 
man  has  the  desire  and  the  ability  to  work  on  high 
things,  but  he  has  also  the  ability  to  build  himself 
a  high  staging. 

As  for  passing  through  any  great  and  glorious 
experience,  and  rising  above  it,  as  an  eagle  might 
fly  athwart  the  evening  sky  to  rise  into  still 
brighter  and  fairer  regions  of  the  heavens,  I  can 
not  say  that  I  ever  sailed  so  creditably,  but  my 
bark  ever  seemed  thwarted  by  some  side  wind, 
and  went  off  over  the  edge,  and  now  only  occa- 


LETTERS.  71 

sionally  tacks  back  toward  the  centre  of  that  sea 
again.  I  have  outgrown  nothing  good,  but,  I  do 
not  fear  to  say,  fallen  behind  by  whole  continents 
of  virtue,  which  should  have  been  passed  as 
islands  in  my  course  ;  but  I  trust  —  what  else  can 
I  trust  —  that,  with  a  stiff  wind,  some  Friday, 
when  I  have  thrown  some  of  my  cargo  overboard, 
I  may  make  up  for  all  that  distance  lost. 

Perchance  the  time  will  come  when  we  shall 
not  be  content  to  go  back  and  forth  upon  a  raft  to 
some  huge  Homeric  or  Shakespearian  Indiaman 
that  lies  upon  the  reef,  but  build  a  bark  out  of 
that  wreck  and  others  that  are  buried  in  the  sands 
of  this  desolate  island,  and  such  new  timber  as 
may  be  required,  in  which  to  sail  away  to  whole 
new  worlds  of  light  and  life,  where  our  friends 
are. 

Write  again.  There  is  one  respect  in  which 
you  did  not  finish  your  letter :  you  did  not  write 
it  with  ink,  and  it  is  not  so  good,  therefore,  against 
or  for  you  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  nor  in  the  eye  of 

H.  D.  T. 


TO    MK.  B. 

September,  1852. 

MR.  B :  — 

Here  come  the  sentences  which  I  promised  you. 
You  may  keep  them,  if  you  will  regard  and  use 


72  LETTERS. 

them  as  the  disconnected  fragments  of  what  I  may 
find  to  be  a  completer  essay,  on  looking  over  my 
journal,  at  last,  and  may  claim  again. 

I  send  you  the  thoughts  on  Chastity  and  Sensu 
ality  with  diffidence  and  shame,  not  knowing  how 
far  I  speak  to  the  condition  of  men  generally,  or 
how  far  I  betray  my  peculiar  defects.  Pray  en 
lighten  me  on  this  point  if  you  can. 

LOVE. 

What  the  essential  difference  between  man  and 
woman  is  that  they  should  be  thus  attracted  to 
one  another,  no  one  has  satisfactorily  answered. 
Perhaps  we  must  acknowledge  the  justness  of  the 
distinction  which  assigns  to  man  the  sphere  of 
wisdom,  and  to  woman  that  of  love,  though 
neither  belongs  exclusively  to  either.  Man  is 
continually  saying  to  woman,  Why  will  you  not 
be  more  wise?  Woman  is  continually  saying  to 
man,  Why  will  you  not  be  more  loving?  It  is 
not  in  their  wills  to  be  wise  or  to  be  loving ;  but, 
unless  each  is  both  wise  and  loving,  there  can  be' 
neither  wisdom  nor  love. 

All  transcendent  goodness  is  one,  though  ap 
preciated  in  different  ways,  or  by  different  senses. 
In  beauty  we  see  it,  in  music  we  hear  it,  in  fra 
grance  we  scent  it,  in  the  palatable  the  pure 
palate  tastes  it,  and  in  rare  health  the  whole  body 
feels  it.  The  variety  is  in  the  surface  or  manifes- 


LETTERS.  73 

tatlon ;  but  the  radical  identity  we  fail  to  express. 
The  lover  sees  in  the  glance  of  his  beloved  the 
same  beauty  that  in  the  sunset  paints  the  western 
skies.  It  is  the  same  daimon,  here  lurking  under 
a  human  eyelid,  and  there  under  the  closing 
eyelids  of  the  day.  Here,  in  small  compass,  is 
the  ancient  and  natural  beauty  of  evening  and 
morning.  What  loving  astronomer  has  ever  fath 
omed  the  ethereal  depths  of  the  eye  ? 

The  maiden  conceals  a  fairer  flower  and  sweeter 
fruit  than  any  calyx  in  the  field ;  and,  if  she  goes 
with  averted  face,  confiding  in  her  purity  and  high 
resolves,  she  will  make  the  heavens  retrospective, 
and  all  nature  humbly  confess  its  queen. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  sentiment,  man  is  a 
string  of  an  JEolian  harp,  which  vibrates  with  the 
zephyrs  of  the  eternal  morning. 

There  is  at  first  thought  something  trivial  in  the 
commonness  of  love.  So  many  Indian  youths  and 
maidens  along  these  banks  have  in  ages  past 
yielded  to  the  influence  of  this  great  civilizer. 
Nevertheless,  this  generation  is  not  disgusted  nor 
discouraged,  for  love  is  no  individual's  experience  ; 
and  though  we  are  imperfect  mediums,  it  does  not 
partake  of  our  imperfection  ;  though  we  are  finite, 
it  is  infinite  and  eternal ;  and  the  same  divine  in 
fluence  broods  over  these  banks,  whatever  race 
may  inhabit  them,  and  perchance  still  would,  even 
if  the  human  race  did  not  dwell  here. 

Perhaps  an  instinct  survives  through  the  intens- 

4 


74  LETTERS. 

est  actual  love,  which  prevents  entire  abandon 
ment  and  devotion,  and  makes  the  most  ardent 
lover  a  little  reserved.  It  is  the  anticipation  of 
change.  For  the  most  ardent  lover  is  not  the  less 
practically  wise,  and  seeks  a  love  which  will  last 
forever. 

K  Considering  how  few  poetical  friendships  there 
are,  it  is  remarkable  that  so  many  are  married. 
It  would  seem  as  if  men  yielded  too  easy  an  obe 
dience  to  nature  without  consulting  their  genius. 
One  may  be  drunk  with  love  without  being  any 
nearer  to  finding  his  mate^  There  is  more  of  good 
nature  than  of  good  sense  at  the  bottom  of  most 
marriages.  But  the  good  nature  must  have  the 
counsel  of  the  good  spirit  or  Intelligence.  If  com 
mon  sense  had  been  consulted,  how  many  mar 
riages  would  never  have  taken  place  ;  if  uncom 
mon  or  divine  sense,  how  few  marriages  such  as 
we  witness  would  ever  have  taken  place  ! 

Our    love   may   be    ascending    or   descending. 
What  is  its  character,  if  it  may  be  said  of  it,  — 
"  We  must  respect  the  souls  above. 
But  only  those  below  we  love." 

Love  is  a  severe  critic.  Hate  can  pardon  more 
than  love.  They  who  aspire  to  love  worthily, 
subject  themselves  to  an  ordeal  more  rigid  than 
any  other. 

Is  your  friend  such  a  one  that  an  increase  of 
worth  on  your  part  will  rarely  make  her  more 
your  friend  ?  Is  she  retained,  —  is  she  attracted, 


LETTERS.  75 

—  by  more  nobleness  in  you,  —  by  more  of  that 
virtue  which  is  peculiarly  yours ;  or  is  she  indif 
ferent  and  blind  to  that  ?  Is  she  to  be  flattered 
and  won  by  your  meeting  her  on  any  other  than 
the  ascending  path  ?  Then  duty  requires  that  you 
separate  from  her. 

Love  must  be  as  much  a  light  as  a  flame. 

Where  there  is  not  discernment,  the  behavior 
even  of  the  purest  soul  may  in  effect  amount  to 
coarseness. 

A  man  of  fine  perceptions  is  more  fruly  fem 
inine  than  a  merely  sentimental  woman.  The 
heart  is  blind  ;  but  love  is  not  blind.  None  of  the 
gods  is  so  discriminating. 

In  love  and  friendship  the  imagination  is  as 
much  exercised  as  the  heart ;  and  if  either  is  out 
raged  the  other  will  be  estranged.  It  is  commonly 
the  imagination  which  is  wounded  first,  rather 
than  the  heart,  —  it  is  so  much  the  more  sensi 
tive. 

Comparatively,  we  can  excuse  any  offence  against 
the  heart,  but  not  against  the  imagination.  The 
imagination  knows  —  nothing  escapes  its  glance 
from  out  its  eyry  —  and  it  controls  the  breast.  My 
heart  may  still  yearn  toward  the  valley,  but  my 
imagination  will  not  permit  me  to  jump  off  the 
precipice  that  debars  me  from  it,  for  it  is  wounded, 
its  wings  are  dipt,  and  it  cannot  fly,  even  descend- 
ingly.  Our  "  blundering  hearts !  "  some  poet  says. 
The  imagination  never  forgets ;  it  is  a  re-member- 


76  LETTERS. 

ing.  It  is  not  foundationless,  but  most  reasonable, 
and  it  alone  uses  all  the  knowledge  of  the  intel 
lect. 

Love  is  the  profoundest  of  secrets.  Divulged, 
even  to  the  beloved,  it  is  no  longer  Love.  As 
if  it  were  merely  I  that  loved  you.  When  love 
ceases,  then  it  is  divulged. 

In  our  intercourse  with  one  we  love,  we  wish 
to  have  answered  those  questions  at  the  end  of 
which  we  do  not  raise  our  voice ;  against  which 
we  put  no  interrogation-mark,  —  answered  with 
the  same  unfailing,  universal  aim  toward  every 
point  of  the  compass. 

I  require  that  thou  knowest  everything  without 
being  told  anything.  I  parted  from  my  beloved 
because  there  was  one  thing  which  I  had  to  tell 
her.  She  questioned  me.  She  should  have  known 
all  by  sympathy.  That  I  had  to  tell  it  her  was  the 
difference  between  us,  —  the  misunderstanding. 

A  lover  never  hears  anything  that  is  told,  for 
that  is  commonly  either  false  or  stale ;  but  he 
hears  things  taking  place,  as  the  sentinels  heard 
Trenck  mining  in  the  ground,  and  thought  it  was 
moles. 

The  relation  may  be  profaned  in  many  ways. 
The  parties  may  not  regard  it  with  equal  sacred- 
ness.  What  if  the  lover  should  learn  that  his 
beloved  dealt  in  incantations  and  philters  !  What 
if  he  should  hear  that  she  consulted  a  clairvoy 
ant  !  The  spell  would  be  instantly  broken. 


LETTERS.  77 

If  to  chaffer  and  higgle  are  bad  in  trade,  they 
are  much  worse  in  Love.  It  demands  directness 
as  of  an  arrow. 

There  is  danger  that  we  lose  sight  of  what  our 
friend  is  absolutely,  while  considering  what  she  is 
to  us  alone. 

The  lover  wants  no  partiality.  He  says,  Be  so 
kind  as  to  be  just. 

Canst  them  love  with  thy  mind, 

And  reason  with  thy  heart  ? 
Canst  thoxi  be  kind, 

And  from  thy  darling  part  ? 

Can'st  them  range  earth,  sea,  and  air, 

And  so  meet  me  everywhere "? 
Through  all  events  I  will  pursue  thee, 

Through  all  persons  I  will  woo  thee. 

I  need  thy  hate  as  much  as  thy  love.  Thou 
wilt  not  repel  me  entirely  when  thou  repellest 
what  is  evil  in  me. 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  tell, 
Though  I  ponder  on  it  well, 
"Which  were  easier  to  state, 
All  my  love  or  all  my  hate. 
Surely,  surely,  thou  wilt  trust  me 
When  I  say  thou  dost  disgust  me 
0  I  hate  thee  with  a  hate 
That  would  fain  annihilate ; 
Yet,  sometimes,  against  my  will, 
My  dear  Friend,  I  love  thee  still. 
It  were  treason  to  our  love, 
And  a  sin  to  God  above, 
One  iota  to  abate 
Of  a  pure,  impartial  hate. 


78  LETTERS. 

It  is  not  enough  that  we  are  truthful ;  we  must 
cherish  and  carry  out  high  purposes  to  be  truthful 
about. 

It  must  be  rare,  indeed,  that  we  meet  with  one 
to  whom  we  are  prepared  to  be  quite  ideally  re 
lated,  as  she  to  us.  We  should  have  no  reserve  ; 
we  should  give  the  whole  of  ourselves  to  that  so 
ciety  ;  we  should  have  no  duty  aside  from  that. 
One  who  could  bear  to  be  so  wonderfully  and 
beautifully  exaggerated  every  day.  I  would  take 
my  friend  out  of  her  low  self  and  set  her  higher, 
infinitely  higher,  and  there  know  her.  But,  com 
monly,  men  are  as  much  afraid  of  love  as  of  hate. 
They  have  lower  engagements.  They  have  near 
ends  to  serve.  They  have  not  imagination  enough 
to  be  thus  employed  about  a  human  being,  but 
must  be  coopering  a  barrel,  forsooth. 

What  a  difference,  whether,  in  all  your  walks, 
you  meet  only  strangers,  or  in  one  house  is  one 
who 'knows  you,  and  whom  you  know.  To  have 
a  brother  or  a  sister !  To  have  a  gold  mine  on 
your  farm  !  To  find  diamonds  in  the  gravel  heaps 
before  your  door !  How  rare  these  things  are ! 
To  share  the  day  with  you,  —  to  people  the  earth. 
Whether  to  have  a  god  or  a  goddess  for  com 
panion  in  your  walks,  or  to  walk  alone  with  hinds 
and  villains  and  carles.  Would  not  a  friend  en 
hance  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  as-  much  as  a 
deer  or  hare  ?  Everything  would  acknowledge 
and  serve  such  a  relation  ;  the  corn  in  the  field, 


LETTERS.  79 

and  the  cranberries  in  the  meadow.  The  flowers 
would  bloom,  and  the  birds  sing,  with  a  new  im 
pulse.  There  would  be  more  fair  days  in  the 
year. 

The  object  of  love  expands  and  grows  before  us 
to  eternity,  until  it  includes  all  that  is  lovely,  and 
we  become  all  that  can  love. 

CHASTITY  AND  SENSUALITY. 

The  subject  of  sex  is  a  remarkable  one,  since, 
though  its  phenomena  concern  us  so  much,  both 
directly  and  indirectly,  and,  sooner  or  later,  it 
occupies  the  thoughts  of  all,  yet  all  mankind,  as  it 
were,  agree  to  be  silent  about  it,  at  least  the  sexes 
commonly  one  to  another.  One  of  the  most  in 
teresting  of  all  human  facts  is  veiled  more  com 
pletely  than  any  mystery.  It  is  treated  with  such 
secrecy  and  awe,  as  surely  do  not  go  to  any  re 
ligion.  I  believe  that  it  is  unusual  even  for  the 
most  intimate  friends  to  communicate  the  pleasures 
and  anxieties  connected  with  this  fact,  much  as  the 
external  affair  of  love,  its  comings  and  goings,  are 
bruited.  The  Shakers  do  not  exaggerate  it  so  much 
by  their  manner  of  speaking  of  it,  as  all  mankind 
by  their  manner  of  keeping  silence  about  it.  Not 
that  men  should  speak  on  this  or  any  subject  with-, 
out  having  anything  worthy  to  say ;  but  it  i§ 
plain  that  the  education  of  man  has  hardly  com 
menced,  —  there  is  so  little  genuine  intercom 
munication. 


80  LETTERS. 

In  a  pure  society,  the  subject  of  marriage 
would  not  be  so  often  avoided  from  shame  and 
not  from  reverence,  winked  out  of  sight,  and 
hinted  at  only,  but  treated  naturally  and  simply, 
—  perhaps  simply  avoided,  like  the  kindred  mys 
teries.  If  it  cannot  be  spoken  of  for  shame,  how 
can  it  be  acted  of?  But,  doubtless,  there  is  far 
more  purity,  as  well  as  more  impurity,  than  is 
apparent. 

Men  commonly  couple  with  their  idea  of  mar 
riage  a  slight  degree  at  least  of  sensuality ;  but 
every  lover,  the  world  over,  believes  in  its  incon 
ceivable  purity. 

If  it  is  the  result  of  a  pure  love,  there  can  be 
nothing  sensual  in  marriage.  Chastity  is  some 
thing  positive,  not  negative.  It  is  the  virtue  of 
the  married  especially.  All  lusts  or  base  pleasures 
must  give  place  to  loftier  delights.  They  who 
meet  as  superior  beings  cannot  perform  the  deeds 
of  inferior  ones.  The  deeds  of  love  are  less 
questionable  than  any  action  of  an  individual  can 
be,  for,  it  being  founded  on  the  rarest  mutual 
respect,  the  parties  incessantly  stimulate  each 
other  to  a  loftier  and  purer  life,  and  the  act  in 
which  they  are  associated  must  be  pure  and  noble 
indeed,  for  innocence  and  purity  can  have  no 
equal.  In  this  relation  we  deal  with  one  whom 
•we  respect  more  religiously  even  than  we  respect 
our  better  selves,  and  we  shall  necessarily  conduct 
as  in  the  presence  of  God.  What  presence  can 


LETTERS.  81 

be  more  awful  to  the  lover  than  the  presence  of 
his  beloved  ? 

If  you  seek  the  warmth  even  of  affection  from 
a  similar  motive  to  that  from  which  cats  and  dogs 
and  slothful  persons  hug  the  fire,  because  your 
temperature  is  low  through  sloth,  you  are  on 
the  downward  road,  and  it  is  but  to  plunge  yet 
deeper  into  sloth.  Better  the  cold  affection  of  the 
sun,  reflected  from  fields  of  ice  and  snow,  or  his 
warmth  in  some  still  wintry  dell.  The  warmth 
of  celestial  love  does  not  relax,  but  nerves  and 
braces  its  enjoyer.  Warm  your  body  by  health 
ful  exercise,  not  by  cowering  over  a  stove. 
Warm  your  spirit  by  performing  independently 
noble  deeds,  not  by  ignobly  seeking  the  sympathy 
of  your  fellows  who  are  no  better  than  yourself. 
A  man's  social  and  spiritual  discipline  must  an 
swer  to  his  corporeal.  He  must  lean  on  a  friend 
who  has  a  hard  breast,  as  he  would  lie  on  a  hard 
bed.  He  must  drink  cold  water  for  his  only  bev 
erage.  So  he  must  not  hear  sweetened  and  col- 

o 

ored  words,  but  pure  and  refreshing  truths.  He 
must  daily  bathe  in  truth  cold  as  spring  water,  not 
warmed  by  the  sympathy  of  friends. 

Can  love  be  in  aught  allied  to  dissipation  ?  Let 
us  love  by  refusing,  not  accepting  one  another. 
Love  and  lust  are  far  asunder.  The  one  is  good, 
the  other  bad.  When  the  affectionate  sympathize 
by  their  higher  natures,  there  is  love  ;  but  there  is 
danger  that  they  will  sympathize  by  their  lower 

4*  F 


82  LETTERS. 

natures,  and  then  there  is  lust.  It  is  not  ne 
cessary  that  this  he  deliberate,  hardly  even  con 
scious  ;  hut,  in  the  close  contact  of  affection,  there 
is  danger  that  we  may  stain  and  pollute  one  an 
other,  for  we  cannot  embrace  but  with  an  entire 
embrace. 

We  must  love  our  friend  so  much  that  she  shall 
be  associated  with  our  purest  and  holiest  thoughts 
alone.  When  there  is  impurity,  we  have  "  de 
scended  to  meet,"  though  we  knew  it  not. 

The  luxury  of  affection,  —  there  's  the  danger. 
There  must  be  some  nerve  and  heroism  in  our 
love,  as  of  a  winter  morning.  In  the  religion  of 
all  nations  a  purity  is  hinted  at,  which,  I  fear, 
men  never  attain  to.  We  may  love  and  not  ele 
vate  one  another.  The  love  that  takes  us  as  it 
finds  us  degrades  us.  What  watch  we  must  keep 
over  the  fairest  and  purest  of  our  affections,  lest 
there  be  some  taint  about  them.  May  we  so  love 
as  never  to  have  occasion  to  repent  of  our  love. 

There  is  to  be  attributed  to  sensuality  the  loss 
to  language  of  how  many  pregnant  symbols  ? 
Flowers,  which,  by  their  infinite  hues  and  fra 
grance,  celebrate  the  marriage  of  the  plants,  are 
intended  for  a  symbol  of  the  open  and  unsuspected 
beauty  of  all  true  marriage,  when  man's  flowering 
season  arrives. 

Virginity,  too,  is  a  budding  flower,  and  by  an 
impure  marriage  the  virgin  is  deflowered.  Who 
ever  loves  flowers,  loves  virgins  and  chastity. 


LETTERS.  83 

Love  and  lust  are  as  far  asunder  as  a  flower- 
garden  is  from  a  brothel. 

J.  Biberg,  in  the  Amcenitates  Botanicce,  edited 
by  Linnaeus,  observes  (I  translate  from  the  Latin)  : 
"  The  organs  of  generation,  which,  in  the  animal 
kingdom,  are  for  the  most  part  concealed  by  Na 
ture,  as  if  they  were  to  be  ashamed  of,  in  the  veg 
etable  kingdom  are  exposed  to  the  eyes  of  all ; 
and,  when  the  nuptials  of  plants  are  celebrated,  it 
is  wonderful  what  delight  they  afford  to  the  be 
holder,  refreshing  the  senses  with  the  most  agree 
able  color  and  the  sweetest  odor ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  bees  and  other  insects,  not  to  mention 
the  humming-bird,  extract  honey  from  their  nec 
taries,  and  gather  wax  from  their  effete  pollen. " 
Linnaeus  himself  calls  the  calyx  the  thdlamus,  or 
bridal  chamber  ;  and  the  corolla  the  aulceum,  or 
tapestry  of  it,  and  proceeds  to  explain  thus  every 
part  of  the  flower. 

Who  knows  but  evil  spirits  might  corrupt  the 
flowers  themselves,  rob  them  of  their  fragrance 
and  their  fair  hues,  and  turn  their  marriage  into 
a  secret  shame  and  defilement  ?  Already  they  are 
of  various  qualities,  and  there  is  one  whose  nup 
tials  fill  the  lowlands  in  June  with  the  odor  of 
carrion. 

The  intercourse  of  the  sexes,  I  have  dreamed, 
is  incredibly  beautiful,  too  fair  to  be  remembered. 
I  have  had  thoughts  about  it,  but  they  are  among 
the  most  fleeting  and  irrecoverable  in  my  experi- 


84  LETTERS. 

ence.  It  is  strange  that  men  will  talk  of  miracles, 
revelation,  inspiration,  and  the  like,  as  things  past, 
while  love  remains. 

A  true  marriage  will  differ  in  no  wise  from 
illumination.  In  all  perception  of  the  truth  there 
is  a  divine  ecstasy,  an  inexpressible  delirium  of 
joy,  as  when  a  youth  embraces  his  betrothed 
virgin.  The  ultimate  delights  of  a  true  marriage 
are  one  with  this. 

No  wonder  that,  out  of  such  a  union,  not  as 
end,  but  as  accompaniment,  comes  the  undying 
race  of  man.  The  womb  is  a  most  fertile  soil. 

Some  have  asked  if  the  stock  of  men  could  not 
be  improved,  —  if  they  could  not  be  bred  as 
cattle.  '  Let  Love  be  purified,  and  all  the  rest 
will  follow.  A  pure  love  is  thus,  indeed,  the 
panacea  for  all  the  ills  of  the  world. 

The  only  excuse  for  reproduction  is  improve 
ment.  Nature  abhors  repetition.  Beasts  merely 
propagate  their  kind;  but  the  offspring  of  noble 
men  and  women  will  be  superior  to  themselves, 
as  their  aspirations  are.  By  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them. 


LETTERS.  85 

TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  February  27,  1853. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  have  not  answered  your  letter  before  because 
I  have  been  almost  constantly  in  the  fields  survey 
ing  of  late.  It  is  long  since  I  have  spent  so  many 
days  so  profitably  in  a  pecuniary  sense  ;  so  un- 
profitably,  it  seems  to  me,  in  a  more  important 
sense.  I  have  earned  just  a  dollar  a  day  for 
seventy-six  days  past ;  for,  though  I  charge  at  a 
higher  rate  for  the  days  which  are  seen  to  be 
spent,  yet  so  many  more  are  spent  than  appears. 
This  is  instead  of  lecturing,  which  has  not  offered, 
to  pay  for  that  book  which  I  printed.  I  have  not 
only  cheap  hours,  but  cheap  weeks  and  months, 
that  is,  weeks  which  are  bought  at  the  rate  I  have 
named.  Not  that  they  are  quite  lost  to  me,  or 
make  me  very  melancholy,  alas  !  for  I  too  often  take 
a  cheap  satisfaction  in  so  spending  them,  —  weeks 
of  pasturing  and  browsing,  like  beeves  and  deer, 
—  which  give  me  animal  health,  it  may  be,  but 
create  a  tough  skin  over  the  soul  and  intellectual 
part.  Yet,  if  men  should  offer  my  body  a  main 
tenance  for  the  work  of  my  head  alone,  I  feel  that 
it  would  be  a  dangerous  temptation. 

As  to  whether  what  you  speak  of  as  the 
"  world's  way "  (which  for  the  most  part  is  my 
way),  or  that  which  is  shown  me,  is  the  better, 
the  former  is  imposture,  the  latter  is  truth.  I 


86  LETTERS. 

have  the  coldest  confidence  in  the  last.  There  is 
only  such  hesitation  as  the  appetites  feel  in  follow 
ing  the  aspirations.  The  clod  hesitates  because  it 
is  inert,  wants  animation.  The  one  is  the  way  of 
death,  the  other  of  life  everlasting.  My  hours 
are  not  "  cheap  in  such  a  way  that  I  doubt 
whether  the  world's  way  would  not  have  been 
better,"  but  cheap  in  such  a  way,  that  I  doubt 
whether  the  world's  way,  which  I  have  adopted 
for  the  time,  could  be  worse.  The  whole  en 
terprise  of  this  nation,  which  is  not  an  upward, 
but  a  westward  one,  toward  Oregon,  California, 
Japan,  &c.,  is  totally  devoid  of  interest  to  me, 
whether  performed  on  foot,  or  by  a  Pacific  railroad. 
It  is  not  illustrated  by  a  thought ;  it  is  not  warmed 
by  a  sentiment ;  there  is  nothing  in  it  which  one 
should  lay  down  his  life  for,  nor  even  his  gloves,  — 
hardly  which  one  should  take  up  a  newspaper  for. 
It  is  perfectly  heathenish,  —  a  filibustering  toward 
heaven  by  the  great  western  route.  No;  they 
may  go  their  way  to  their  manifest  destiny,  which 
I  trust  is  not  mine.  May  my  seventy-six  dollars, 
whenever  I  get  them,  help  to  carry  me  in  the 
other  direction.  I  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 
but  no  music  is  wafted  from  their  host,  —  only  the 
rattling  of  change  in  their  pockets.  I  would 
rather  be  a  captive  knight,  and  let  them  all  pass 
by,  than  be  free  only  to  go  whither  they  are 
bound.  What  end  do  they  propose  to  themselves 
beyond  Japan  ?  What  aims  more  lofty  have  they 
than  the  prairie  dogs  ? 


LETTERS.  87 

As  it  respects  these  things,  I  have  not  changed 
an  opinion  one  iota  from  the  first.  As  the  stars 
looked  to  me  when  I  was  a  shepherd  in  Assyria, 
they  look  to  me  now  a  New-Englander.  The 
higher  the  mountain  on  which  you  stand,  the  less 
change  in  the  prospect  from  year  to  year,  from 
age  to  age.  Above  a  certain  height  there  is  no 
change.  I  am  a  Switzer  on  the  edge  of  the 
glacier,  with  his  advantages  and  disadvantages, 
goitre,  or  what  not.  (You  may  suspect  it  to  be 
some  kind  of  swelling  at  any  rate.)  I  have  had 
but  one  spiritual  birth  (excuse  the  word),  and 
now  whether  it  rains  or  snows,  whether  I  laugh  or 
cry,  fall  further  below  or  approach  nearer  to  my 
standard ;  whether  Pierce  or  Scott  is  elected,  — 
not  a  new  scintillation  of  light  flashes  on  me,  but 
ever  and  anon,  though  with  longer  intervals,  the 
same  surprising  and  everlastingly  new  light  dawns 
to  me,  with  only  such  variations  as  in  the  coming 
of  the  natural  day,  with  which,  indeed,  it  is  often 
coincident. 

As  to  how  to  preserve  potatoes  from  rotting, 
your  opinion  may  change  from  year  to  year ;  but 
as  to  how  to  preserve  your  soul  from  rotting,  I 
have  nothing  to  learn,  but  something  to  practise. 

Thus  I  declaim  against  them ;  but  I  in  my  folly 
am  the  world  I  condemn. 

I  very  rarely,  indeed,  if  ever,  "  feel  any  itching 
to  be  what  is  called  useful  to  my  fellow-men." 
Sometimes,  —  it  may  be  when  my  thoughts  for 


88  LETTEKS. 

want  of  employment  fall  into  a  beaten  path  or 
humdrum,  —  I  have  dreamed  idly  of  stopping  a 
man's  horse  that  was  running  away  ;  but,  per 
chance,  I  wished  that  he  might  run,  in  order  that 
I  might  stop  him  ;  —  or  of  putting  out  a  fire  ;  but 
then,  of  course,  it  must  have  got  well  a-going. 
Now,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  dream  much  of 
acting  upon  horses  before  they  run,  or  of  prevent 
ing  fires  which  are  not  yet  kindled.  What  a  foul 
subject  is  this  of  doing  good,  instead  of  minding 
one's  life,  which  should  be  his  business ;  doing 
good  as  a  dead  carcass,  which  is  only  fit  for 
manure,  instead  of  as  a  living  man,  —  instead  of 
taking  care  to  flourish,  and  smell,  and  taste  sweet, 
and  refresh  all  mankind  to  the  extent  of  our 
capacity  and  quality.  People  will  sometimes  try 
to  persuade  you  that  you  have  done  something 
from  that  motive,  as  if  you  did  not  already  know 
enough  about  it.  If  I  ever  did  a  man  any  good,  in 
their  sense,  of  course  it  was  something  exceptional 
and  insignificant  compared  with  the  good  or  evil 
which  I  am  constantly  doing  by  being  what  I  am. 
As  if  you  were  to  preach  to  ice  to  shape  itself  into 
burning-glasses,  which  are  sometimes  useful,  and 
so  the  peculiar  properties  of  ice  be  lost.  Ice  that 
merely  performs  the  office  of  a  burning-glass  does 
not  do  its  duty. 

The  problem  of  life  becomes,  one  cannot  say  by 
how  many  degrees,  more  complicated  as  our  ma 
terial  wealth  is  increased,  whether  that  needle 


LETTERS.  89 

they  tell  of  was  a  gateway  or  not,  since  the  prob 
lem  is  not  merely  nor  mainly  to  get  life  for  our 
bodies,  but  by  this  or  a  similar  discipline  to  get  life 
for  our  souls ;  by  cultivating  the  lowland  farm  on 
right  principles,  that  is,  with  this  view,  to  turn  it 
into  an  upland  farm.  You  have  so  many  more 
talents  to  account  for.  If  I  accomplish  as  much 
more  in  spiritual  work  as  I  am  richer  in  worldly 
goods,  then  I  am  just  as  worthy,  or  worth  just  as 
much,  as  I  was  before,  and  no  more.  I  see  that, 
in  my  own  case,  money  might  be  of  great  service 
to  me,. but  probably  it  would  not  be,  for  the  diffi 
culty  now  is,  that  I  do  not  improve  my  opportuni 
ties,  and  therefore  I  am  not  prepared  to  have  my 
opportunities  increased.  Now,  I  warn  you,  if  it 
be  as  you  say,  you  have  got  to  put  on  the  pack 
of  an  upland  farmer  in  good  earnest  the  coming 
spring,  the  lowland  farm  being  cared  for ;  ay,  you 
must  be  selecting  your  seeds  forthwith,  and  doing 
what  winter  work  you  can  ;  and,  while  others  are 
raising  potatoes  and  Baldwin  apples  for  you,  you 
must  be  raising  apples  of  the  Hesperides  for  them. 
(Only  hear  how  he  preaches  !)  No  man  can  sus 
pect  that  he  is  the  proprietor  of  an  upland  farm, 
—  upland  in  the  sense  that  it  will  produce  nobler 
crops,  and  better  repay  cultivation  in  the  long 
run,  —  but  he  will  be  perfectly  sure  that  he  ought 
to  cultivate  it. 

Though  we  are  desirous  to  earn  our  bread,  we 
need  not  be  anxious  to  satisfy  men  for  it,  —  though 
we  shall  take  care  to  pay  them,  — but  God,  who 


90  LETTERS. 

alone  gave  it  to  us.  Men  may  in  effect  put  us  in 
the  debtors'  jail  for  that  matter,  simply  for  paying 
our  whole  debt  to  God,  which  includes  our  debt  to 
them,  and  though  we  have  his  receipt  for  it,  for  his 
paper  is  dishonored.  The  cashier  will  tell  you 
that  he  has  no  stock  in  his  bank. 

How  prompt  we  are  to  satisfy  the  hunger  and 
thirst  of  our  bodies ;  how  slow  to  satisfy  the  hun 
ger  and  thirst  of  our  souls.  Indeed,  we  would-be- 
practical  folks  cannot  use  this  world  without  blush 
ing  because  of  our  infidelity,  having  starved  this 
substance  almost  to  a  shadow.  We  feel  it  to  be  as 
absurd  as  if  a  man  were  to  break  forth  into  a 
eulogy  oh  his  dog,  who  has  n't  any!  An  ordinary 
man  will  work  every  day  for  a  year  at  shovelling 
dirt  to  support  his  body,  or  a  family  of  bodies ; 
but  he  is  an  extraordinary  man  who  will  work  a 
whole  day  in  a  year  for  the  support  of  his  soul. 
Even  the  priests,  the  men  of  God,  so  called,  for 
the  most  part  confess  that  they  work  for  the  sup 
port  of  the  body.  But  he  alone  is  the  truly  en 
terprising  and  practical  man  who  succeeds  in 
maintaining  his  soul  here.  Have  not  we  our  ever 
lasting  life  to  get  ?  and  is  not  that  the  only  excuse 
at  last  for  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  or  even  carry 
ing  an  umbrella  when  it  rains  ?  A  man  might  as 
well  devote  himself  to  raising  pork,  as  to  fattening 
the  bodies,  or  temporal  part  merely,  of  the  whole 
human  family.  If  we  made  the  true  distinction, 
we  should  almost  all  of  us  be  seen  to  be  in  the 
almshouse  for  souls. 


LETTERS.  91 

I  am  much  indebted  to  you  because  you  look  so 
steadily  at  the  better  side,  or  rather  the  true  centre 
of  me  (for  our  true  centre  may,  and  perhaps  often- 
est  does,  lie  entirely  aside  from  us,  and  we  are  in 
fact  eccentric),  and,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said, 
"give  me  an  opportunity  to  live."  You  speak  as 
if  the  image  or  idea  which  I  see  were  reflected 
from  me  to  you,  and  I  see  it  again  reflected  from 
you  to  me,  because  we  stand  at  the  right  angle  to 
one  another ;  and  so  it  goes  zigzag  to  what  suc 
cessive  reflecting  surfaces,  before  it  is  all  dissipated 
or  absorbed  by  the  more  unreflecting,  or  differ 
ently  reflecting,  —  who  knows  ?  Or,  perhaps, 
what  you  see  directly,  you  refer  to  me.  What  a 
little  shelf  is  required,  by  which  we  may  impinge 
upon  another,  and  build  there  our  eyrie  in  the 
clouds,  and  all  the  heavens  we  see  above  us  we 
refer  to  the  crags  around  and  beneath  us.  Some 
piece  of  mica,  as  it  were,  in  the  face  or  eyes  of 
one,  as  on  the  delectable  mountains,  slanted  at  the 
right  angle,  reflects  the  heavens  to  us.  But,  in 
the  slow  geological  upheavals  and  depressions,  these 
mutual  angles  are  disturbed,  these  suns  set,  and 
new  ones  rise  to  us.  That  ideal  which  I  wor 
shipped  was  a  greater  stranger  to  the  mica  than 
to  me.  It  was  not  the  hero  I  admired,  but  the 
reflection  from  his  epaulet  or  helmet.  It  is  noth 
ing  (for  us)  permanently  inherent  in  another, 
but  his  attitude  or  relation  to  what  we  prize,  that 
we  admire.  The  meanest  man  may  glitter  with 
micacious  particles  to  his  fellow's  eye.  These  are 


92  LETTERS. 

the  spangles  that  adorn  a  man.  The  highest 
union,  —  the  only  un-ion  (don't  laugh),  or  cen 
tral  oneness,  is  the  coincidence  of  visual  rays.  Our 
club-room  was  an  apartment  in  a  constellation 
where  our  visual  rays  met  (and  there  was  no  de 
bate  about  the  restaurant).  The  way  between 
us  is  over  the  mount. 

Your  words  make  me  think  of  a  man  of  my 
acquaintance  whom  I  occasionally  meet,  whom 
you,  too,  appear  to  have  met,  one  Myself,  as 
he  is  called.  Yet,  why  not  call  him  Yourself? 
If  you  have  met  with  him  and  know  him,  it  is 
all  I  have  done;  and  surely,  where  there  is  a 
mutual  acquaintance,  the  my  and  thy  make  a 
distinction  without  a  difference. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  do  not  like  my  Can 
ada  story.  It  concerns  me  but  little,  and  prob 
ably  is  not  worth  the  time  it  took  to  tell  it.  Yet 
I  had  absolutely  no  design  whatever  in  my  mind, 
but  simply  to  report  what  I  saw.  I  have  inserted 
all  of  myself  that  was  implicated,  or  made  the  ex 
cursion.  It  has  come  to  an  end,  at  any  rate  ;  they 
will  print  no  more,  but  return  me  my  MS.  when 
it  is  but  little  more  than  half  done,  as  well  as  an 
other  I  had  sent  them,  because  the  editor  requires 
the  liberty  to  omit  the  heresies  without  consulting 
me,  —  a  privilege  California  is  not  rich  enough  to 
bid  for. 

I  thank  you  again  and  again  for  attending  to 
me  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  am  glad  that  you  hear  me, 
and  that  you  also  are  glad.  Hold  fast  to  your 


LETTERS.  93 

most  indefinite,  waking  dream.  The  very  green 
dust  on  the  walls  is  an  organized  vegetable  ;  the 
atmosphere  has  its  fauna  and  flora  floating  in  it ; 
and  shall  we  think  that  dreams  are  but  dust  and 
ashes,  are  always  disintegrated  and  crumbling 
thoughts,  and  not  dust-like  thoughts  trooping  to 
their  standard  with  music,  systems  beginning  to  be 
organized  ?  These  expectations,  —  these  are  roots, 
these  are  nuts,  which  even  the  poorest  man  has  in 
his  bin,  and  roasts  or  cracks  them  occasionally  in 
winter  evenings,  which  even  the  poor  debtor  re 
tains  with  his  bed  and  his  pig,  i.  e.  his  idleness 
and  sensuality.  Men  go  to  the  opera  because  they 
hear  there  a  faint  expression  in  sound  of  this  news 
which  is  never  quite  distinctly  proclaimed.  Sup 
pose  a  man  were  to  sell  the  hue,  the  least  amount 
of  coloring  matter  in  the  superficies  of  his  thought, 
for  a  farm,  —  were  to  exchange  an  absolute  and 
infinite  value  for  a  relative  and  finite  one,  to  gain 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul ! 

Do  not  wait  as  long  as  I  have  before  you  write. 
If  you  will  look  at  another  star,  I  will  try  to  sup 
ply  my  side  of  the  triangle. 

Tell  Mr. ,  that  I  remember  him,  and  trust 

that  he  remembers  me. 

Yours, 

H.  D.  T. 

P.  S.  —  Excuse  this  rather  flippant  preaching, 
which  does  not  cost  me  enough  ;  and  do  not  think 
that  I  mean  you  always,  though  your  letter  re 
quested  the  subjects. 


94  LETTERS. 

TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  April  10, 1853. 

Mfi.  B :  — 

Another  singular  kind  of  spiritual  foot-ball,  — 
really  nameless,  handleless,  homeless,  like  myself, 
—  a  mere  arena  for  thoughts  and  feelings ;  defi 
nite  enough  outwardly,  indefinite  more  than  enough 
inwardly.  But  I  do  not  know  why  we  should  be 
styled  misters  or  masters :  we  come  so  near  to  be 
ing  anything  or  nothing,  and  seeing  that  we  are 
mastered,  and  not  wholly  sorry  to  be  mastered,  by 
the  least  phenomenon.  It  seems  to  me  that  we 
are  the  mere  creatures  of  thought,  —  one  of  the 
lowest  forms  of  intellectual  life,  —  we  men,  as  the 
sunfish  is  of  animal  life.  As  yet  our  thoughts 
have  acquired  no  definiteness  nor  solidity  ;  they 
are  purely  molluscous,  not  vertebrate ;  and  the 
height  of  our  existence  is  to  float  upward  in  an 
ocean  where  the  sun  shines,  appearing  only  like  a 
vast  soup  or  chowder  to  the  eyes  of  the  immortal 
navigators.  It  is  wonderful  that  I  can  be  here, 
and  you  there,  and  that  we  can  correspond,  and 
do  many  other  things,  when,  in  fact,  there  is  so 
little  of  us,  either  or  both,  anywhere.  In  a  few 
minutes,  I  expect,  this  slight  film  or  dash  of  vapor 
that  I  am  will  be  what  is  called  asleep,  —  resting ! 
forsooth  from  what  ?  Hard  work  !  and  thought ! ! 

£5 

The   hard  work   of  the  dandelion    down,    which 
floats  over  the  meadow  all  day  ;  the  hard  work  of 


LETTERS.  95 

a  pismire,  that  labors  to  raise  a  hillock  all  day, 
and  even  by  moonlight.  Suddenly  I  can  come  for 
ward  into  the  utmost  apparent  distinctness,  and 
speak  with  a  sort  of  emphasis  to  you ;  and  the 
next  moment  I  am  so  faint  an  entity,  and  make  so 
slight  an  impression,  that  nobody  can  find  the 
traces  of  me.  I  try  to  hunt  myself  up,  and  find  that 
the  little  of  me  that  is  discoverable  is  falling  asleep, 
and  then  I  assist  and  tuck  it  up.  It  is  getting 
late.  How  can  I  starve  or  feed  ?  Can  /  be  said 
to  sleep  ?  There  is  not  enough  of  me  even  for 
that.  If  you  hear  a  noise,  —  't  aint  I,  —  't  aint  I, 

—  as  the  dog  says  with  a  tin-kettle  tied  to  his  tail. 
I   read  of  something   happening   to   another  the 
other  day :  how  happens  it  that  nothing  ever  hap 
pens  to  me  ?    A  dandelion  down  that  never  alights, 

—  settles,  —  blown  off  by  a  boy  to  see  if  his  moth 
er  wanted  him,  —  some  divine  boy  in  the  upper 
pastures. 

Well,  if  there  really  is  another  such  a  meteor 
sojourning  in  these  spaces,  I  would  like  to  ask  you 
if  you  know  whose  estate  this  is  that  we  are  on  ? 
For  my  part,  I  enjoy  it  well  enough,  what  with 
the  wild  apples  and  the  scenery ;  but  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  the  owner  set  his  dog  on  me  next.  I 
could  remember  something  not  much  to  the  pur 
pose,  probably ;  but  if  I  stick  to  what  I  do  know, 

then 

"It  is  worth  the  while  to  live  respectably  unto 
ourselves.      We   can   possibly    get   along   with   a 


96  LETTERS. 

neighbor,  even  with  a  bedfellow,  whom  we  re 
spect  but  very  little  ;  but  as  soon  as  it  comes  to 
that,  that  we  do  not  respect  ourselves,  then  we  do 
not  get  along  at  all,  no  matter  how  much  money 
we  are  paid  for  halting.  There  are  old  heads  in 
the  world  who  cannot  help  me  by  their  example 
or  advice  to  live  worthily  and  satisfactorily  to  my 
self  ;  but  I  believe  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  elevate 
myself  this  very  hour  above  the  common  level  of 
my  life.  It  is  better  to  have  your  head  in  the 
clouds,  and  know  where  you  are,  if  indeed  you 
cannot  get  it  above  them,  than  to  breathe  the 
clearer  atmosphere  below  them,  and  think  that  you 
are  in  paradise. 

Once  you  were  in  Milton  doubting  what  to  do. 
To  live  a  better  life,  —  this  surely  can  be  done. 
Dot  and  carry  one.  Wait  not  for  a  clear  sight, 
for  that  you  are  to  get.  What  you  see  clearly 
you  may  omit  to  do.  Milton  and  Worcester  !  It 

is  all  B ,  B .  Never  mind  the  rats  in 

the  wall;  the  cat  will  take  care  of  them.  AIL 
that  men  have  said  or  are  is  a  very  faint  rumor, 
and  it  is  not  worth  the  while  to  remember  or  refer 
to  that.  If  you  are  to  meet  God,  will  you  refer 
to  anybody  out  of  that  court?  How  shall  men 
know  how  I  succeed,  unless  they  are  in  at  the  life  ? 
I  did  not  see  the  "  Times  "  reporter  there. 

Is  it  not  delightful  to  provide  one's  self  with 
the  necessaries  of  life,  —  to  collect  dry  wood  for 
the  fire  when  the  weather  grows  cool,  or  fruits 


LETTERS.  97 

when  we  grow  hungry  ?  —  not  till  then.  And 
then  we  have  all  the  time  left  for  thought ! 

Of  what  use  were  it,  pray,  to  get  a  little  wood 
to  burn  to  warm  your  body  this  cold  weather,  if 
there  were  not  a  divine  fire  kindled  at  the  same 
time  to  warm  your  spirit  ?  -Unless  he  can 

"  Erect  himself  above  himself, 
How  poor  a  thing  is  man." 

I  cuddle  up  by  my  stove,  and  there  I  get  up  another 
fire  which  warms  fire  itself.  Life  is  so  short  that 
it  is  not  wise  to  take  roundabout  ways,  nor  can 
we  spend  much  time  in  waiting.  Is  it  absolutely 
necessary,  then,  that  we  should  do  as  we  are  do 
ing  ?  Are  we  chiefly  under  obligations  to  the 
devil,  like  Tom  Walker?  Though  it  is  late  to 
leave  off  this  wrong  way,  it  will  seem  early  the 
moment  we  begin  in  the  right  way;  instead  of 
mid-afternoon,  it  will  be  early  morning  with  us. 
We  have  not  got  half-way  to  dawn  yet. 

As  for  the  lectures,  I  feel  that  I  have  something 
to  say,  especially  on  Travelling,  Vagueness,  and 
Poverty ;  but  I  cannot  come  nowr.  I  will  wait 
till  I  am  fuller,  and  have  fewer  engagements. 
Your  suggestions  will  help  me  much  to  write 
them  when  I  am  ready.  I  am  going  to  Haver- 
hill  to-morrow  surveying,  for  a  week  or  more. 
You  met  me  on  my  last  errand  thither. 

I  trust  that  you  realize  what  an  exaggerator  I 
am,  —  that  I  lay  myself  out  to  exaggerate  when- 


98  LETTERS. 

ever  I  have  an  opportunity,  —  pile  Pelion  upon 
Ossa,  to  reach  heaven  so.  Expect  no  trivial  truth 
from  me,  unless  I  am  on  the  witness-stand.  I  will 
come  as  near  to-  lying  as  you  can  drive  a  coach- 
and-four.  If  it  is  n't  thus  and  so  with  me,  it  is 
with  something.  I  am  not  particular  whether  I 
get  the  shells  or  meat,  in  view  of  the  latter's 
worth. 

I  see  that  I  have  not  at  all  answered  your  letter, 
but  there  is  time  enough  for  that. 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD.  December  19,  1853. 

MR.  B :  — 

My  debt  has  accumulated  so  that  I  should  have 
answered  your  last  letter  at  once,  if  I  had  not 
been  the  subject  of  what  is  called  a  press  of  en 
gagements,  having  a  lecture  to  write  for  last 
Wednesday,  and  surveying  more  than  usual  be 
sides.  It  has  been  a  kind  of  running  fight  with 
me,  —  the  enemy  not  always  behind  me,  I  trust. 

True,  a  man  cannot  lift  himself  by  his  own 
waistbands,  because  he  cannot  get  out  of  himself ; 
but  he  can  expand  himself  (which  is  better,  there 
being  no  up  nor  down  in  nature),  and  so  split  his 
waistbands,  being  already  within  himself. 


LETTERS.  99 

You  speak  of  doing  and  being,  and  the  vanity, 
real  or  apparent,  of  much  doing.  The  suckers  — 
I  think  it  is  they  —  make  nests  in  our  river  in 
the  spring  of  more  than  a  cart-load  of  small  stones, 
amid  which  to  deposit  their  ova.  The  other  day 
I  opened  a  muskrat's  house.  It  was  made  of 
weeds,  five  feet  broad  at  base,  and  three  feet  high, 
and  far  and  low  within  it  was  a  little  cavity,  only 
a  foot  in  diameter,  where  the  rat  dwelt.  It  may 
seem  trivial,  this  piling  up  of  weeds,  but  so  the 
race  of  muskrats  is  preserved.  We  must  heap  up 
a  great  pile  of  doing,  for  a  small  diameter  of  being. 
Is  it  not  imperative  on  us  that  we  do  something, 
if  we  only  work  in  a  tread-mill?  And,  indeed, 
some  sort  of  revolving  is  necessary  to  produce  a 
centre  and  nucleus  of  being.  What  exercise  is 
to  the  body,  employment  is  to  the  mind  and  mor 
als.  Consider  what  an  amount  of  drudgery  must 
be  performed,  —  how  much  humdrum  and  prosaic 
labor  goes  to  any  work  of  the  least  value.  There 
are  so  many  layers  of  mere  white  lime  in  every 
shell  to  that  thin  inner  one  so  beautifully  tinted. 
Let  not  the  shell-fish  think  to  build  his  house  of 
that  alone ;  and  pray,  what  are  its  tints  to  him  ? 
Is  it  not  his  smooth,  close-fitting  shirt  merely, 
whose  tints  are  not  to  him,  being  in  the  dark,  but 
only  wlien  he  is  gone  or  dead,  and  his  shell  is 
heaved  up  to  light,  a  wreck  upon  the  beach,  do 
they  appear.  With  him,  too,  it  is  a  song  of  the 
shirt,  "  Work,  —  work,  —  work  !  "  And  the  work 


100  LETTERS. 

is  not  merely  a  police  in  the  gross  sense,  but  in  the 
higher  sense,  a  discipline.  If  it  is  surely  the 
means  to  the  highest  end  we  know,  can  any  work 
be  humble  or  disgusting  ?  Will  it  not  rather  be 
elevating  as  a  ladder,  the  means  by  which  we  are 
translated  ? 

How  admirably  the  artist  is  made  to  accomplish 
his  self-culture  by  devotion  to  his  art !  The  wood- 
sawyer,  through  his  effort  to  do  his  work  well, 
becomes  not  merely  a  better  wood-sawyer,  but 
measurably  a  better  man.  Few  are  the  men  that 
can  work  on  their  navels, — only  some  Brahmins 
that  I  have  heard  of.  To  the  painter  is  given 
some  paint  and  canvas  instead ;  to  the  Irishman  a 
hog,  typical  of  himself.  In  a  thousand  apparently 
humble  ways  men  busy  themselves  to  make  some 
right  take  the  place  of  some  wrong,  —  if  it  is  only 
to  make  a  better  paste-blacking,  —  and  they  are 
themselves  so  much  the  better  morally  for  it. 

You  say  that  you  do  not  succeed  much.  Does 
it  concern  you  enough  that  you  do  not  ?  Do  you 
work  hard  enough  at  it  ?  Do  you  get  the  benefit 
of  discipline  out  of  it  ?  If  so,  persevere.  Is  it  a 
more  serious  thing  than  to  walk  a  thousand  miles 
in  a  thousand  successive  hours  ?  Do  you  get  any 
corns  by  it  ?  Do  you  ever  think  of  hanging  your 
self  on  account  of  failure  ? 

If  you  are  going  into  that  line,  —  going  to  be 
siege  the  city  of  God,  —  you  must  not  only  be 
strong  in  engines,  but  prepared  with  provisions  to 


LETTERS.  101 

starve  out  the  garrison.  An  Irishman  came  to  see 
me  to-day,  who  is  endeavoring  to  get  his  family  out 
to  this  New  World.  He  rises  at  half  past  four, 
milks  twenty-eight  cows  (which  has  swollen  the 
joints  of  his  fingers),  and  eats  his  breakfast,  with 
out  any  milk  in  his  tea  or  coffee,  before  six ;  and 
so  on,  day  after  day,  for  six  and  a  half  dollars  a, 
month  ;  and  thus  he  keeps  his  virtue  in  him,  if  he 
does  not  add  to  it ;  and  he  regards  me  as  a  gentle 
man  able  to  assist  him ;  but  if  I  ever  get  to  be  a 
gentleman,  it  will  be  by  working  after  my  fashion 
harder  than  he  does.  If  my  joints  are  not  swollen, 
it  must  be  because  I  deal  with  the  teats  of  celestial 
cows  before  breakfast  (and  the  milker  in  this  case 
is  always  allowed  some  of  the  milk  for  his  break 
fast),  to  say  nothing  of  the  flocks  and  herds  of 
Admetus  afterward. 

It  is  the  art  of  mankind  to  polish  the  world, 
and  every  one  who  works  is  scrubbing  in  some 
part. 

If  the  work  is  high  and  far,  you  must  not  only 
aim  aright,  but  draw  the  bow  with  all  your  might. 
You  must  qualify  yourself  to  use  a  bow  which  no 
humbler  archer  can  bend. 

"  Work,  —  work,  —  work !  " 

Who  shall  know  it  for  a  bow  ?  It  is  not  of  yew- 
tree.  It  is  straighter  than  a  ray  of  light;  flexi 
bility  is  not  known  for  one  of  its  qualities. 


102  LETTERS. 

December  22. 

So  far  I  had  got  when  I  was  called  off  to  sur 
vey.  Pray  read  the  life  of  Haydon  the  painter, 
if  you  have  not.  It  is  a  small  revelation  for  these 
latter  days ;  a  great  satisfaction  to  know  that  he 
has  lived,  though  he  is  now  dead.  Have  you  met 
with  the  letter  of  a  Turkish  cadi  at  the  end  of 
Layard's  "Ancient  Babylon  "  ?  that  also -is  refresh 
ing,  and  a  capital  comment  on  the  whole  book 
which  precedes  it,  —  the  Oriental  genius  speaking 
through  him. 

Those  Brahmins  put  it  through.  They  come 
off,  or  rather  stand  still,  conquerors,  with  some 
withered  arms  or  legs  at  least  to  show ;  and  they 
are  said  to  have  cultivated  the  faculty  of  abstrac 
tion  to  a  degree  unknown  to  Europeans.  If  we 
cannot  sing  of  faith  and  triumph,  we  will  sing  our 
despair.  We  will  be  that  kind  of  bird.  There 
are  day  owls,  and  there  are  night  owls,  and  each  is 
beautiful  and  even  musical  while  about  its  busi 
ness. 

Might  you  not  find  some  positive  work  to  do 
with  your  back  to  Church  and  State,  letting  your 
back  do  all  the  rejection  of  them  ?  Can  you  not 
go  upon  your  pilgrimage,  Peter,  along  the  wind 
ing  mountain  path  whither  you  face  ?  A  step 
more  will  make  those  funereal  church  bells  over 
your  shoulder  sound  far  and  sweet  as  a  natural 
sound. 

«  Work,  —  work,  —  work  !  " 


LETTERS.  103 

Why  not  make  a  very  large  mud-pie  and  bake  it  in 
the  sun  !  Only  put  no  Church  nor  State  into  it, 
nor  upset  any  other  pepper-box  that  way.  Dig 
out  a  woodchuck,  for  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  rotting  institutions.  Go  ahead. 

Whether  a  man  spends  his  day  in  an  ecstasy  or 
despondency,  he  must  do  some  work  to  show  for 
it,  even  «s  there  are  flesh  and  bones  to  show  for 
him.  We  are  superior  to  the  joy  we  experience. 

Your  last  two  letters,  methinks,  have  more 
nerve  and  will  in  them  than  usual,  as  if  you  had 
erected  yourself  more.  Why  are  not  they  good 
work,  if  you  only  had  a  hundred  correspondents 
to  tax  you  ? 

Make  your  failure  tragical  by  the  earnestness 
and  steadfastness  of  your  endeavor,  and  then  it 
will  not  differ  from  success.  Prove  it  to  be  the 
inevitable  fate  of  mortals, — of  one  mortal,  —  if 
you  can. 

You  said  that  you  were  writing  on  immortality. 
I  wish  you  would  communicate  to  me  what  you 
know  about  that.  You  are  sure  to  live  while  that 
is  your  theme. 

Thus  I  write  on  some  text  which  a  sentence  of 
your  letters  may  have  furnished. 

I  think  of  coming  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I  get  a 
new  coat,  if  I  have  money  enough  left.  I  will 
write  to  you  again  about  it. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


104  LETTERS. 

TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  January  21,  1854. 

MR.  B :  — 

My  coat  is  at  last  done,  and  my  mother  and 
sister  allow  that  I  am  so  far  in  a  condition  to  go 
abroad.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  gone  abroad  the  mo 
ment  I  put  it  on.  It  is,  as  usual,  a  production 
strange  to  me,  the  wearer,  invented  by  some 
Count  D'Orsay,  and  the  maker  of  it  was  not 
acquainted  with  any  of  my  real  depressions  or 
elevations.  He  only  measured  a  peg  to  hang  it 
on,  and  might  have  made  the  loop  big  enough  to 
go  over  my  head.  It  requires  a  not  quite  inno 
cent  indifference,  not  to  say  insolence,  to  wear  it. 
Ah  !  the  process  by  which  we  get  our  coats  is  not 
what  it  should  be.  Though  the  Church  declares 
it  righteous,  and  its  priest  pardons  me,  my  own 
good  genius  tells  me  that  it  is  hasty,  and  coarse, 
and  false.  I  expect  a  time  when,  or  rather  an 
integrity  by  which  a  man  will  get  his  coat  as  hon 
estly  and  as  perfectly  fitting  as  a  tree  its  bark. 
Now  our  garments  are  typical  of  our  conformity  to 
the  ways  of  the  world,  i.  e.  of  the  devil,  and  to 
some  extent  react  on  us  and  poison  us,  like  that 
shirt  which  Hercules  put  on. 

I  think  to  come  and  see  you  next  week,  on 
Monday,  if  nothing  hinders.  I  have  just  returned 
from  court  at  Cambridge,  whither  I  was  called  as 
a  witness,  having  surveyed  a  water-privilege,  about 
which  there  is  a  dispute,  since  you  were  here. 


LETTERS.  105 

Ah  !  what  foreign  countries  there  are,  greater 
in  extent  than  the  United  States  or  Russia,  and 
with  no  more  souls  to  a  square  mile,  stretching 
away  on  every  side  from  every  human  being,  with 
whom  you  have  no  sympathy.  Their  humanity 
affects  me  as  simply  monstrous.  Rocks,  earth, 
brute  beasts,  comparatively,  are  not  so  strange  to 
me.  When  I  sit  in  the  parlors  and  kitchens  of 
some  with  whom  my  business  brings  me  —  I  was 
going  to  say  in  contact — (business,  like  misery, 
makes  strange  bedfellows),  I  feel  a  sort  of  awe, 
and  as  forlorn  as  if  I  were  cast  away  on  a  desolate 
shore.  I  think  of  Riley's  narrative  and  his  suffer 
ings.  You,  who  soared  like  a  merlin  with  your 
mate  through  the  realms  of  ether,  in  the  presence 
of  the  unlike,  drop  at  once  to  earth,  a  mere  amor 
phous  squab,  divested  of  your  air-inflated  pinions. 
(By  the  way,  excuse  this  writing,  for  I  am  using 
the  stub  of  the  last  feather  I  chance  to  possess.) 
You  travel  on,  however,  through  this  dark  and 
desert  world ;  you  see  in  the  distance  an  intelli 
gent  and  sympathizing  lineament ;  stars  come  forth 
in  the  dark,  and  oases  appear  in  the  desert. 

But  (to  return  to  the  subject  of  coats),  we  are 
well  nigh  smothered  under  yet  more  fatal  coats, 
which  do  not  fit  us,  our  whole  lives  long.  Consider 
the  cloak  that  our  employment  or  station  is  ;  how 
rarely  men  treat  each  other  for  what  in  their  true 
and  naked  characters  they  are ;  how  we  use  and 
tolerate  pretension ;  how  the  judge  is  clothed  with 

5* 


106  LETTERS. 

dignity  which  does  not  belong  to  him,  and  the 
trembling  witness  with  humility  that  does  not  be 
long  to  him,  and  the  criminal,  perchance,  with 
shame  or  impudence  which  no  more  belong  to 
him.  It  does  not  matter  so  much,  then,  what  is 
the  fashion  of  the  cloak  with  which  we  cloak  these 
cloaks.  Change  the  coat;  put  the  judge  in  the 
criminal-box,  and  the  criminal  on  the  bench,  and 
you  might  think  that  you  had  changed  the  men. 

No  doubt  the  thinnest  of  all  cloaks  is  conscious 
deception  or  lies ;  it  is  sleazy  and  frays  out ;  it  is 
not  close-woven  like  cloth  ;  but  its  meshes  are  a 
coarse  net-work.  A  man  can  afford  to  lie  only  at 
the  intersection  of  the  threads ;  but  truth  puts  in 
the  filling,  and  makes  a  consistent  stuff. 

I  mean  merely  to  suggest  how  much  the  station 
affects  the  demeanor  and  self-respectability  of  the 
parties,  and  that  the  difference  between  the  judge's 
coat  of  cloth  and  the  criminal's  is  insignificant, 
compared  with,  or  only  partially  significant  of,  the 
difference  between  the  coats  which  their  respective 
stations  permit  them  to  wear.  What  airs  the 
judge  may  put  on  over  his  coat  which  the  crim 
inal  may  not!  The  judge's  opinion  (sententict) 
of  the  criminal  sentences  him,  and  is  read  by  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  and  published  to  the  world, 
and  executed  by  the  sheriff;  but  the  criminal's 
opinion  of  the  judge  has  the  weight  of  a  sentence, 
and  is  published  and  executed  only  in  the  supreme 
court  of  the  universe,  —  a  court  not  of  common 


LETTERS.  107 

pleas.  How  much  juster  is  the  one  than  the 
other  ?  Men  are  continually  sentencing  each 
other  ;  but,  whether  we  be  judges  or  crimi 
nals,  the  sentence  is  ineffectual  unless  we  con 
tinue  ourselves. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  that  I  do  not  always  limit 
your  vision  when  you  work  this  way;  that  you 
sometimes  see  the  light  through  me  ;  that  I  am 
here  and  there  windows,  and  not  all  dead  wall. 
Might  not  the  community  sometimes  petition  a* 
man  to  remove  himself  as  a  nuisance,  a  darkener 

of  the  day,  a  too  large  mote  ? 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  August  8,  1854. 

MR.  B :  — 

Methinks  I  have  spent  a  rather  unprofitable 
summer  thus  far.  I  have  been  too  much  with 
the  world,  as  the  poet  might  say.  The  complet- 
est  performance  of  the  highest  duties  it  imposes 
would  yield  me  but  little  satisfaction.  Better  the 
neglect  of  all  such,  because  your  life  passed  on  a 
level  where  it  was  impossible  to  recognize  them. 
Latterly,  I  have  heard  the  very  flies  buzz  too  dis 
tinctly,  and  have  accused  myself  because  I  did  not 
still  this  superficial  din.  We  must  not  be  too 
easily  distracted  by  the  crying  of  children  or  of 
dynasties.  The  Irishman  erects  his  sty,  and  gets 


108  LETTERS. 

drunk,  and  jabbers  more  and  more  under  my 
eaves,  and  I  am  responsible  for  all  that  filth  and 
folly.  I  find  it,  as  ever,  very  unprofitable  to  have 
much  to  do  with  men.  It  is  sowing  the  wind,  but 
not  reaping  even  the  whirlwind ;  only  reaping  an 
unprofitable  calm  and  stagnation.  Our  conversa 
tion  is  a  smooth,  and  civil,  and  never-ending  spec 
ulation  merely.  I  take  up  the  thread  of  it  again 
in  the  morning,  with  very  much  such  courage  as 
the  invalid  takes  his  prescribed  Seidlitz  powders. 
Shall  I  help  you  to  some  of  the  mackerel  ?  It 
would  be  more  respectable  if  men,  as  has  been 
said  before,  instead  of  being  such  pigmy  despe 
rates,  were  Giant  Despairs.  Emerson  says  that 
his  life  is  so  unprofitable  and  shabby  for  the  most 
part,  that  he  is  driven  to  all  sorts  of  resources,  and, 
among  the  rest,  to  men.  I  tell  him  that  we  differ 
only  in  our  resources.  Mine  is  to  get  away  from 
men.  They  very  rarely  affect  me  as  grand  or 
beautiful ;  but  I  know  that  there  is  a  sunrise  and  a 
sunset  every  day.  In  the  summer,  this  world  is  a 
mere  watering-place,  —  a  Saratoga,  —  drinking  so 
many  tumblers  of  Congress  water;  and  in  the 
winter,  is  it  any  better,  with  its  oratorios  ?  I  have 
seen  more  men  than  usual,  lately  ;  and,  well  as 
I  was  acquainted  with  one,  I  am  surprised  to  find 
what  vulgar  fellows  they  are.  They  do  a  little 
business  commonly  each  day,  in  order  to  pay  their 
board,  and  then  they  congregate  in  sitting-rooms, 
and  feebly  fabulate  and  paddle  in  the  social  slush  ; 


LETTERS.  109 

and  when  I  think  that  they  have  sufficiently  re 
laxed,  and  am  prepared  to  see  them  steal  away  to 
their  shrines,  they  go  unashamed  to  their  beds, 
and  take  on  a  new  layer  of  sloth.  They  may 
be  single,  or  have  families  in  their  faineancy.  I 
do  not  meet  men  who  can  have  nothing  to  do 
with  me  because  they  have  so  much  to  do  with 
themselves.  However,  I  trust  that  a  very  few 
cherish  purposes  which  they  never  declare.  Only 
think,  for  a  moment,  of  a  man  about  his  affairs  ! 
How  we  should  respect  him  !  How  glorious  he 
would  appear!  Not  working  for  any  corporation, 
its  agent,  or  president,  but  fulfilling  the  end  of  his 
being !  A  man  about  his  business  would  be  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

The  other  evening  I  was  determined  that  I 
would  silence  this  shallow  din  ;  that  I  would  walk 
in  various  directions  and  see  if  there  was  not  to  be 
found  any  depth  of  silence  around.  As  Bona 
parte  sent  out  his  horsemen  in  the  Red  Sea  on  all 
sides  to  find  shallow  water,  so  I  sent  forth  my 
mounted  thoughts  to  find  deep  water.  I  left  the 
village  and  paddled  up  the  river  to  Fair  Haven 
Pond.  As  the  sun  went  down,  I  saw  a  solitary 
boatman  disporting  on  the  smooth  lake.  The 
falling  dews  seemed  to  strain  and  purify  the  air, 
and  I  was  soothed  with  an  infinite  stillness.  I 
got  the  world,  as  it  were,  by  the  nape  of  the  neck, 
and  held  it  under  in  the  tide  of  its  own  events,  till 
it  was  drowned,  and  then  I  let  it  go  down  stream 


110  LETTERS. 

like  a  dead  dog.  Vast  hollow  chambers  of  silence 
stretched  away  on  every  side,  and  my  being  ex 
panded  in  proportion,  and  filled  them.  Then  first 
could  I  appreciate  sound,  and  find  it  musical. 

But  now  for  your  news.  Tell  us  of  the  year. 
Have  you  fought  the  good  fight?  What  is  the 
state  of  your  crops?  Will  your  harvest  answer 
well  to  the  seed-time,  and  are  you  cheered  by  the 
prospect  of  stretching  cornfields  ?  Is  there  any 
blight  on  your  fields,  any  murrain  in  your  herds  ? 
Have  you  tried  the  size  and  quality  of  your  potatoes  ? 
It  does  one  good  to  see  their  balls  dangling  in  the 
lowlands.  Have  you  got  your  meadow  hay  before 
the  fall  rains  shall  have  set  in  ?  Is  there  enough 
in  your  barns  to  keep  your  cattle  over  ?  Are  you 
killing  weeds  now-a-days?  or  have  you  earned 
leisure  to  go  a-fishing  ?  Did  you  plant  any  Giant 
Regrets  last  spring,  such  as  I  saw  advertised  ?  It 
is  not  a  new  species,  but  the  result  of  cultivation 
and  a  fertile  soil.  They  are  excellent  for  sauce. 
How  is  it  with  your  marrow  squashes  for  winter 
use  ?  Is  there  likely  to  be  a  sufficiency  of  fall 
feed  in  your  neighborhood  ?  What  is  the  state  of 
the  springs  ?  I  read  that  in  your  county  there  is 
more  water  on  the  hills  than  in  the  valleys.  Do 
you  find  it  easy  to  get  all  the  help  you  require  ? 
Work  early  and  late,  and  let  your  men  and  teams 
rest  at  noon.  Be  careful  not  to  drink  too  much 
sweetened  water,  while  at  your  hoeing,  this  hot 
weather.  You  can  bear  the  heat  much  better  for  it. 

H.  D.  T. 


LETTERS.  Ill 

TO  MB.  D.  K. 

CONCORD,  October  1,  1854. 

DEAR  SIR:  — 

I  had  duly  received  your  very  kind  and  frank 
letter,  but  delayed  to  answer  it  thus  long,  because 
I  have  little  skill  as  a  correspondent,  and  wished 
to  send  you  something  more  than  my  thanks.  I 
was  gratified  by  your  prompt  and  hearty  accept 
ance  of  my  book.  Your's  is  the  only  word  of 
greeting  I  am  likely  to  receive  from  a  dweller  in 
the  woods  like  myself,  from  where  the  whip-poor- 
will  and  cuckoo  are  heard,  and  there  are  better 
than  moral  clouds  drifting  over,  and  real  breezes 
blowing. 

Your  account  excites  in  me  a  desire  to  see  the 
Middleboro'  Ponds,  of  which  I  had  already  heard 
somewhat ;  as  also  some  very  beautiful  ponds  on 
the  Cape,  in  Harwich,  I  think,  near  which  I 
once  passed.  I  have  sometimes  also  thought  of 
visiting  that  remnant  of  our  Indians  still  living 
near  you.  But  then,  you  know,  there  is  nothing 
like  one's  native  fields  and  lakes.  The  best  news 
you  send  me  is,  not  that  Nature  with  you  is  so 
fair  and  genial,  but  that  there  is  one  there  who 
likes  her  so  well.  That  proves  all  that  was 
asserted. 

Homer,  of  course,  you  include  in  your  list  of 
lovers  of  Nature ;  and,  by  the  way,  let  me  men 
tion  here,  —  for  this  is  my  thunder  "  lately,"  — 


112  LETTERS. 

William  Gilpin's  long  series  of  books  on  the  Pic 
turesque,  with  their  illustrations.  If  it  chances 
that,  you  have  not  met  with  these,  I  cannot  just 
now  frame  a  better  wish  than  that  you  may  one 
day  derive  as  much  pleasure  from  the  inspection 
of  them  as  I  have. 

Much  as  you  have  told  me  of  yourself,  you  have 
still,  I  think,  a  little  the  advantage  of  me  in  this 
correspondence,  for  I  have '  told  you  still  more  in 
my  book.  You  have  therefore  the  broadest  mark 
to  fire  at. 

A  young   Englishman,   Mr.    Cholmondeley,   is 
just  now  waiting  for  me  to  take  a  walk  with  him ; 
therefore  excuse  this  very  barren  note  from 
Yours,  hastily  at  last, 

HENRY  D.  THOKEAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  December  19,  1854. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  my  truly  provi 
dential  meeting  with  Mr.  ,  —  providential 

because  it  saved  me  from  the  suspicion  that  my 
words  had  fallen  altogether  on  stony  ground,  when 
it  turned  out  that  there  was  some  Worcester  soil 
there.  You  will  allow  me  to  consider  that  I  cor 
respond  with  him  through  you. 


LETTERS.  113 

I  confess  that  I  am  a  very  bad  correspondent, 
so  far  as  promptness  of  reply  is  concerned ;  but 
then  I  am  sure  to  answer  sooner  or  later.  The 
longer  I  have  forgotten  you,  the  more  I  remember 
you.  For  the  most  part  I  have  not  been  idle 
since  I  saw  you.  How  does  the  world  go  with 
you  ?  or  rather,  how  do  you  get  along  without  it  ? 
I  have  not  yet  learned  to  live,  that  I  can  see,  and 
I  fear  that  I  shall  not  very  soon.  I  find,  how 
ever,  that  in  the  long  run  things  correspond  to 
my  original  idea,  —  that  they  correspond  to  noth 
ing  else  so  much  ;  and  thus  a  man  may  really  be 
a  true  prophet  without  any  great  exertion.  The 
day  is  never  so  dark,  nor  the  night  even,  but  that 
the  laws  at  least  of  light  still  prevail,  and  so  may 
make  it  light  in  our  minds  if  they  are  open  to  the 
truth.  There  is  considerable  danger  that  a  man 
will  be  crazy  between  dinner  and  supper ;  but  it 
will  not  directly  answer  any  good  purpose  that  I 
know  of,  and  it  is  just  as  easy  to  be  sane.  We 
have  got  to  know  what  both  life  and  death  are,  be 
fore  we  can  begin  to  live  after  our  own  fashion. 
Let  us  be  learning  our  a-b-c's  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  never  yet  knew  the  sun  to  be  knocked  down  and 
rolled  through  a  mud-puddle  ;  he  comes  out  honor- 
bright  from  behind  every  storm.  Let  us  then 
take  sides  with  the  sun,  seeing  we  have  so  much 
leisure.  Let  us  not  put  all  we  prize  into  a  foot 
ball  to  be  kicked,  when  a  bladder  will  do  as  well. 

When  an  Indian  is  burned,  his  body  may  be 


114  LETTERS. 

broiled,  it  may  be  no  more  than  a  beef-steak. 
What  of  that  ?  They  may  broil  his  heart,  but 
they  do  not  therefore  broil  his  courage^  —  his 
principles.  Be  of  good  courage !  That  is  the 
main  thing. 

?jlf  a  man  were  to  place  himself  in  an  attitude 
to  bear  manfully  the  greatest  evil  that  can  be  in 
flicted  on  him,  he  would  find  suddenly  that  there 
was  no  such  evil  to  bear ;  his  brave  back  would 
go  a-begging.  When  Atlas  got  his  back  made 
up,  that  was  all  that  was  required.  (In  this  case 
a  priv.,  not  pleon.,  and  rA^A".)  The  world  rests 
on  principles.  The  wise  gods  will  never  make 
underpinning  of  a  man.  But  as  long  as  he 
crouches,  and  skulks,  and  shirks  his  work,  every 
creature  that  has  weight  will  be  treading  on  his 
toes,  and  crushing  him  ;  he  will  himself  tread  with 
one  foot  on  the  other  foot. 

The  monster  is  never  just  there  where  we  think 
he  is.  What  is  truly  monstrous  is  our  cowardice 
and  sloth. 

Have  no  idle  disciplines  like  the  Catholic  Church 
and  others  ;  have  only  positive  and  fruitful  ones. 
Do  what  you  know  you  ought  to  do.  Why  should 
we  ever  go  abroad,  even  across  the  way,  to  ask  a 
neighbor's  advice  ?  There  is  a  nearer  neighbor 
within  is  incessantly  telling  us  how  we  should  be 
have.  But  we  wait  for  the  neighbor  without  to 
tell  us  of  some  false,  easier  way. 

They  have  a  census-table   in  which  they  put 


LETTERS.  115 

down  the  number  of  the  insane.  Do  you  believe 
that  they  put  them  all  down  there  ?  Why,  in 
every  one  of  these  houses  there  is  at  least  one 
man  fighting  or  squabbling  a  good  part  of  his  time 
with  a  dozen  pet  demons  of  his  own  breeding  and 
cherishing,  which  are  relentlessly  gnawing  at  his 
vitals  ;  and  if  perchance  he  resolve  at  length  that 
he  will  courageously  combat  them,  he  says,  "  Ay  ! 
ay!  I  will  attend  to  you  after  dinner!"  And, 
when  that  time  comes,  he  concludes  that  he  is 
good  for  another  stage,  and  reads  a  column  or  two 
about  the  Eastern  War !  Pray,  to  be  in  earnest, 
where  is  Sevastopol?  Who  is  Menchikoff?  and 
Nicholas  behind  these?  who  the  Allies?  Did 
not  we  fight  a  little  (little  enough  to  be  sure,  but 
just  enough  to  make  it  interesting)  at  Alma,  at 
Balaclava,  at  Inkermann  ?  We  love  to  fight  far 
from  home.  Ah !  the  Minie  musket  is  the  king 
of  weapons.  Well,  let  us  get  one  then. 

I  just  put  another  stick  into  my  stove,  —  a 
pretty  large  mass  of  white  oak.  How  many  men 
will  do  enough  this  cold  winter  to  pay  for  the  fuel 
that  will  be  required  to  warm  them  ?  I  suppose  I 
have  burned  up  a  pretty  good-sized  tree  to-night, 
-  and  for  what  ?  I  settled  with  Mr.  Tarbell  for  it 
the  other  day  ;  but  that  was  n't  the  final  settlement. 
I  got  off  cheaply  from  him.  At  last,  one  will  say, 
"  Let  us  see,  how  much  wood  did  you  burn,  sir  ?  " 
And  I  shall  shudder  to  think  that  the  next  ques 
tion  will  be,  "  What  did  you  do  while  you  were 


116  LETTERS. 

warm  ?  "  Do  we  think  the  ashes  will  pay  for  it  ? 
that  God  is  an  ash-man  ?  It  is  a  fact  that  we 
have  got  to  render  an  account  for  the  deeds  done 
in  the  body. 

Who  knows  but  we  shall  be  better  the  next  year 
than  we  have  been  the  past  ?  At  any  rate,  I  wish 
you  a  really  new  year,  —  commencing  from  the  in 
stant  you  read  this,  —  and  happy  or  unhappy,  ac 
cording  to  your  deserts. 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  September  26,  1855. 

The  other  day  I  thought  that  my  health  must 
be  better,  —  that  I  gave  at  last  a  sign  of  vitality, 
—  because  I  experienced  a  slight  chagrin.  But  I 
do  not  see  how  strength  is  to  be  got  into  my  legs 
again.  These  months  of  feebleness  have  yielded 
few,  if  any,  thoughts,  though  they  have  not  passed 
without  serenity,  such  as  our  sluggish  Musketa- 
quid  suggests.  I  hope  that  the  harvest  is  to  come. 
I  trust  that  you  have  at  least  warped  up  the  stream 
a  little  daily,  holding  fast  by  your  anchors  at  night, 
since  I  saw  you,  and  have  kept  my  place  for  me 
while  I  have  been  absent. 

Mr.  R ,  of  New  Bedford,  has  just  made  me 


LETTERS.  117 

a  visit  of  a  day  and  a  half,  and  I  have  had  a  quite 

good  time  with  him.     He  and  C have  got  on 

particularly  well  together.  He  is  a  man  of  very 
simple  tastes,  notwithstanding  his  wealth  ;  a  lover 
of  nature ;  but,  above  all,  singularly  frank  and 
plain-spoken.  I  think  that  you  might  enjoy  meet 
ing  him.  /  Sincerity  is  a  great  but  rare  virtue,  and 
we  pardon  to  it  much  complaining,  and  the  be 
trayal  of  many  weaknesses.-  R says  of  him 
self,  that  he  sometimes  thinks  that  he  has  all  the  in 
firmities  of  genius,  without  the  genius;  is  wretch 
ed  without  a  hair-pillow,  &c.  ;  expresses  a  great 
and  awful  uncertainty  with  regard  to  "  God," 
"Death,"  his  "immortality";  says,  "  If  I  only 
knew,"  &c.  He  loves  Cowper's  Task  better  than 
anything  else ;  and  thereafter,  perhaps,  Thomson, 
Gray,  and  even  Howitt.  He  has  evidently  suffered 
for  want  of  sympathizing  companions.  He  says  that 
he  sympathizes  with  much  in  my  books,  but  much 
in  them  is  naught  to  him,  —  "  namby-pamby,"  — 
"stuff,"  — "mystical."  Why  will  not  I,  having 
common  sense,  write  in  plain  English  always  ; 
teach  men  in  detail  how  to  live  a  simpler  life,  &c. ; 

not  go  off  into ?     But  I  say  that  I  have  no 

scheme  about  it,  —  no  designs  on  men  at  all ;  and, 
if  I  had,  my  mode  would  be  to  tempt  them  with 
the  fruit,  and  not  with  the  manure.  To  what  end 
do  I  lead  a  simple  life  at  all,  pray  ?  That  I  may 
teach  others  to  simplify  their  lives  ? —  and  so  all 
our  lives  be  simplified  merely,  like  an  algebraic  for- 


118  LETTERS. 

mula  ?  Or  not,  rather,  that  I  may  make  use  of 
the  ground  I  have  cleared,  to  live  more  worthily 
and  profitably  ?  I  would  fain  lay  the  most  stress 
forever  on  that  which  is  the  most  important,  — 
imports  the  most  to  me,  —  though  it  were  only 
(what  it  is  likely  to  be)  a  vibration  in  the  air.  As 
a  preacher,  I  should  be  prompted  to  tell  men,  not 
so  much  how  to  get  their  wheat-bread  cheaper,  as 
of  the  bread  of  life  compared  with  which  that  is 
bran.  Let  a  man  only  taste  these  loaves,  and  he 
becomes  a  skilful  economist  at  once.  He  '11  not 
waste  much  time  in  earning  those.  Don't  spend 
your  time  in  drilling  soldiers,  who  may  turn  out 
hirelings  after  all,  but  give  to  undrilled  peasantry 
a  country  to  fight  for.  The  schools  begin  with 
what  they  call  the  elements,  and  where  do  they 
end? 

I  was  glad  to  hear  the  other  day  that  H 

and  were  gone  to  Katahdin  ;  it  must  be  so 

much  better  to  go  to  than  a  Woman's  Rights  or 
Abolition  Convention ;  better  still,  to  the  delect 
able  primitive  mounts  within  you,  which  you  have 
dreamed  of  from  your  youth  up,  and  seen,  per 
haps,  in  the  horizon,  but  never  climbed. 

But  how  do  you  do  ?  Is  the  air  sweet  to  you? 
Do  you  find  anything  at  which  you  can  work, 
accomplishing  something  solid  from  day  to  day  ? 
Have  you  put  sloth  and  doubt  behind  consider 
ably  ?  —  had  one  redeeming  dream  this  summer  ? 
I  dreamed,  last  night,  that  I  could  vault  over  any 


LETTERS.  119 

height  it  pleased  me.  That  was  something ;  and 
I  contemplated  myself  with  a  slight  satisfaction 
in  the  morning  for  it. 

Methinks  I  will  write  to  you.  Methinks  you 
will  be  glad  to  hear.  We  will  stand  on  solid 
foundations  to  one  another,  ~ —  la  column  planted 
on  this  shore,  you  on  that.  We  meet  the  same 
sun  in  his  rising.  We  were  built  slowly,  and  have 
come  to  our  bearing.  We  will  not  mutually  fall 
over  that  we  may  meet,  but  will  grandly  and  eter 
nally  guard  the  straits.  Methinks  I  see  an  in 
scription  on  you,  which  the  architect  made,  the 
stucco  being  worn  off  to  it.  The  name  of  that 
ambitious  worldly  king  is  crumbling  away.  I  see 
it  toward  sunset  in  favorable  lights.  Each  must 
read  for  the  other,  as  might  a  sailer  by.  Be  sure 
you  are  star-y-pointing  still.  How  is  it  on  your 
side  ? 

I  will  not  require  an  answer  until  you  think  I 
have  paid  my  debts  to  you. 

I  have  just  got  a  letter  from  R ,  urging  me 

to  come  to  New  Bedford,  which  possibly  I  may 
do.  He  says  I  can  wear  my  old  clothes  there. 

Let  me  be  remembered  in  your  quiet  house. 
HENRY   D.  THOREAU. 


120  LETTERS. 


TO  MR.  D.  R. 

CONCORD,  September  27,  1855. 

FRIEND  R :  — 

I  am  sorry  that  you  were  obliged  to  leave  Con 
cord  without  seeing  more  of  it,  —  its  river  and 
woods,  and  various  pleasant  walks,  and  its  worthies. 
I  assure  you  that  I  am  none  the  worse  for  my 
walk  with  you,  but  on  all  accounts  the  better. 
Methinks  I  am  regaining  my  health  ;  but  I  would 
like  to  know  first  what  it  was  that  ailed  me. 

I  have  not  yet  conveyed  your  message  to  Mr. 

H ,  but  will  not  fail  to  do  so.  That  idea  of 

occupying  the  old  house  is  a  good  one,  —  quite 
feasible,  —  and  you  could  bring  your  hair-pillow 
with  you.  It  is  an  inn  in  Concord  which  I  had 
not  thought  of,  —  a  philosopher's  inn.  That  large 
chamber  might  make  a  man's  idea  expand  propor- 
tionably.  It  would  be  well  to  have  an  interest  in 
some  old  chamber  in  a  deserted  house  in  every 
part  of  the  country  which  attracted  us.  There 
would  be  no  such  place  to  receive  one's  guests 
as  that.  If  old  furniture  is  fashionable,  why  not 
go  the  whole  house  at  once?  I  shall  endeavor 

to  make  Mr.  H believe  that  the  old  house  is 

the  chief  attraction  of  his  farm,  and  that  it  is  his 
duty  to  preserve  it  by  all  honest  appliances.  You 
might  take  a  lease  of  it  in  perpetuo,  and  done 
with  it. 

I  am  so  wedded  to  my  way  of  spending  a  day, 


LETTERS.  121 

—  require  such  broad  margins  of  leisure,  and  such 
a  complete  wardrobe  of  old  clothes,  that  I  am  ill- 
fitted  for  going  abroad.  Pleasant  is  it  sometimes 
to  sit  at  home,  on  a  single  egg  all  day,  in  your 
own  nest,  though  it  may  prove  at  last  to  be  an  egg 
of  chalk.  The  old  coat  that  I  wear  is  Concord ; 
it  is  my  morning-robe  and  study-gown,  my  work 
ing  dress  and  suit  of  ceremony,  and  my  night 
gown  after  all.  Cleave  to  the  simplest  ever. 
Home,  —  home,  —  home.  Cars  sound  like  cares 
to  me. 

I  am  accustomed  to  think  very  long  of  going 
anywhere,  —  am  slow  to  move.  I  hope  to  hear  a 
response  of  the  oracle  first. 

However,  I  think  that  I  will  try  the  effect  of 
your  talisman  on  the  iron  horse  next  Saturday, 
and  dismount  at  Tarkiln  Hill.  Perhaps  your  sea 
air  will  be  good  for  me. 

I  conveyed  your  invitation  to  C ,  but  he 

apparently  will  not  come. 

Excuse  my  not  writing  earlier ;  but  I  had  not 
decided. 

Yours, 

HENRY   D.  THOREAU. 


122  LETTERS. 


TO   ME.  D.  K. 

CONCORD,  October  12,  1855. 

MR.  E :  — 

I  fear  that  you  had  a  lonely  and  disagreeable 
ride  back  to  New  Bedford,  through  the  Carver 
woods  and  so  on,  —  perhaps  in  the  rain  too,  and  I 
am  in  part  answerable  for  it.  I  feel  very  much 
in  debt  to  you  and  your  family  for  the  pleasant 

days  I  spent'  at  Brooklawn.  Tell  A and 

W that  the  shells  which  they  gave  me  are 

spread  out,  and  make  quite  a  show  to  inland  eyes. 
Methinks  I  still  hear  the  strains  of  the  piano,  the 
violin,  and  the  flageolet  blended  together.  Ex 
cuse  me  for  the  noise  which  I  believe  drove  you  to 
take  refuge  in  the  shanty.  That  shanty  is  indeed 
a  favorable  place  to  expand  in,  which  I  fear  I  did 
not  enough  improve. 

On  my  way  through  Boston,  I  inquired  for 
Gilpin's  works  at  Little,  Brown,  &  Co.'s,  Mon 
roe's,  Ticknor's,  and  Burnham's.  They  have 
not  got  them.  They  told  me  at  Little,  Brown, 
and  Co.'s  that  his  works  (not  complete),  in  twelve 
vols.,  8vo,  were  imported  and  sold  in  this  country 
five  or  six  years  ago  for  about  fifteen  dollars. 
Their  terms  for  importing  are  ten  per  cent  on 
the  cost.  I  copied  from  the  "  London  Catalogue 
of  Books,  1816-51,"  at  their  shop,  the  following 
list  of  Gilpin's  Works  :  — 


LETTERS.  123 

Gilpin,  (Wm.)  Dialogues  on  Various  Subjects.   8vo.   9s.    Cadell. 

Essays  on  Picturesque  Subjects.     8vo.     15s.       Cadell. 

Exposition    of   the   New   Testament.      2   vols.      8vo. 

16s.  Longman. 

Forest  Scenery,  by  Sir  T.  D.  Lauder.     2  vols.     8vo. 

18s.  Smith  &E. 

Lectures  on  the  Catechism.     12mo.  3s.    6c?.    Longman. 

Lives  of  the  Reformers.    2  vols.    12mo.    8s.    Rivington. 

Sermons  Illustrative  and  Practical.     8vo.     12  s. 

Hatchavd. 

Sermons  to    Country    Congregations.      4  vols.      8vo. 

£1   16s.  Longman. 

Tour  in  Cambridge,  Norfolk,  &c.     8vo.     18s.     Cadell. 

—  Tour  of  the  River  Wye.     12mo.     4s.     With   plates. 

8vo.     17s.  Cadell. 

Gilpin,  (W.  S.  (?)  )  Hints  on  Landscape  Gardening.      Royal 

8vo.     £1.  Cadell. 

Beside  these,  I  remember  to  have  read  one 
volume  on  Prints  ;  his  Southern  Tour  (1775)  ; 
Lakes  of  Cumberland,  two  vols.  ;  Highlands  of 
Scotland  and  West  of  England,  two  vols.  —  N.  B. 
There  must  be  plates  in  every  volume. 

I  still  see  an  image  of  those  Middleborough 
Ponds  in  my  mind's  eye, — broad  shallow  lakes, 
with  an  iron  mine  at  the  bottom,  —  comparatively 
unvexed  by  sails,  —  only  by  Tom  Smith  and  his 
squaw,  Sepits,  "  Sharper."  I  find  my  map  of  the 
state  to  be  the  best  I  have  seen  of  that  district. 
It  is  a  question  whether  the  islands  of  Long  Pond 
or  Great  Quitticus  offer  the  greatest  attractions  to 
a  Lord  of  the  Isles.  That  plant  which  I  found  on 
the  shore  of  Long  Pond  chances  to  be  a  rare  and 
beautiful  flower,  —  the  Sabbatia  chloroides,  —  re 
ferred  to  Plymouth. 


124  LETTERS. 

In  a  Description  of  Middleborough  in  the  Hist. 
Coll.,  Vol.  III.,  1810,  signed  Nehemiah  Bennet, 
Middleborough,  1793,  it  is  said:  "There  is  on  the 
easterly  shore  of  Assawampsitt  Pond,  on  the  shore 
of  Betty's  Neck,  two  rocks  which  have  curious 
marks  thereon  (supposed  to  be  done  by  the  In 
dians),  which  appear  like  the  steppings  of  a  person 
with  naked  feet  which  settled  into  the  rocks  ;  like 
wise  the  prints  of  a  hand  on  several  places,  with  a 
number  of  other  marks  ;  also  there  is  a  rock  on  a 
high  hill  a  little  to  the  eastward  of  the  old  stone 
fishing  wear,  where  there  is  the  print  of  a  person's 
hand  in  said  rock." 

It  would  be  well  to  look  at  those  rocks  again 
more  carefully  ;  also  at  the  rock  on  the  hill. 

I  should  think  that  you  would  like  to  explore 
Sinpatuct  Pond  in  Rochester,  —  it  is  so  large  and 
near.  It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the  alewives 
used  to  ascend  to  it,  —  if  they  do  not  still,  —  both 
from  Mattapoisett  and  through  Great  Quitticus. 

There  will  be  no  trouble  about  the  chamber 
in  the  old  house,  though,  as  I  told  you,  Mr. 
Hosmer  may  expect  some  compensation  for  it. 

He  says,  "  Give  my  respects  to  Mr.  R ,  and 

tell  him  that  I  cannot  be  at  a  large  expense  to 
preserve  an  antiquity  or  curiosity.  Nature  must 
do  its  work."  "  But,"  say  I,  "  he  asks  you  only 
not  to  assist  Nature." 

Yours, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  125 

TO   MK.  D.  K. 

CONCORD,  October  16,  1855. 

FRIEND  RICKETSON  :  — 

I  have  got  both  your  letters  at  once.    You  must 

not  think  Concord  so  barren  a  place  when  C 

is  away.  There  are  the  river  and  fields  left  yet ; 
and  I,  though  ordinarily  a  man  of  business,  should 
have  some  afternoons  and  evenings  to  spend  with 
you,  I  trust,  —  that  is,  if  you  could  stand  so  much 
of  me.  If  you  can  spend  your  time  profitably 
here,  or  without  ennui,  having  an  occasional  ram 
ble  or  tete-a-tete  with  one  of  the  natives,  it  will 
give  me  pleasure  to  have  you  in  the  neighborhood. 
You  see  I  am  preparing  you  for  our  awful  un 
social  ways,  —  keeping  in  our  dens  a  good  part  of 
the  day,  —  sucking  our  claws  perhaps.  But  then 
we  make  a  religion  of  it,  and  that  you  cannot  but 
respect. 

If  you  know  the  taste  of  your  own  heart,  and 
like  it,  come  to  Concord,  and  I'll  warrant  you 
enough  here  to  season  the  dish  with,  —  ay,  even 

though  C and  E* and  I  were  all  away. 

We  might  paddle  quietly  up  the  river.  Then 
there  are  one  or  two  more  ponds  to  be  seen,  &c. 

I  should  very  much  enjoy  further  rambling  with 
you  in  your  vicinity,  but  must  postpone  it  for  the 
present.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  planning  to  get 
seriously  to  work  after  these  long  months  of  ineffi 
ciency  and  idleness.  I  do  not  know  whether  you 


126  LETTERS. 

are  haunted  by  any  such  demon  which  puts  you 
on  the  alert  to  pluck  the  fruit  of  each  day  as  it 
passes,  and  store  it  safely  in  your  bin.  True,  it  is 
well  to  live  abandonedly  from  time  to  time ;  but, 
to  our  working  hours  that  must  be  as  the  spile  to 
the  bung.  So  for  a  long  season  I  must  enjoy  only 
a  low  slanting  gleam  in  my  mind's  eye  from  the 
Middleborough  Ponds  far  away. 

Metliinks  I  am  getting  a  little  more  strength 
into  those  knees  of  mine ;  and,  for  my  part,  I 
believe  that  God  does  delight  in  the  strength  of  a 


man's  legs. 


Yours, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  December  9,  1855. 

MR.  B :  — 

Thank  you  !  thank  you  for  going  a-wooding 
with  me,  —  and  enjoying  it;  —  for  being  warmed 
by  my  wood  fire.  I  have  indeed  enjoyed  it  much 
alone.  I  see  how  I  might  enjoy  it  yet  more  with 
company,  —  how  we  might  help  each  other  to 
live.  And  to  be  admitted  to  Nature's  hearth 
costs  nothing.  None  is  excluded ;  but  excludes 
himself.  You  have  only  to  push  aside  the  curtain. 

I  am  glad   to  hear  that  you  were   there  too. 


LETTERS.  127 

There  are  many  more  such  voyages,  and  longer 
ones,  to  be  made  on  that  river,  for  it  is  the  water 
of  life.  The  Ganges  is  nothing  to  it.  Observe 
its  reflections,  —  no  idea  but  is  familiar  to  it. 
That  river,  though  to  dull  eyes  it  seems  terrestrial 
wholly,  flows  through  Elysium.  What  powers 
bathe  in  it  invisible  to  villagers !  Talk  of  its  shal- 
lowness,  —  that  hay-carts  can  be  driven  through  it 
at  midsummer :  its  depth  passeth  my  understand 
ing.  If,  forgetting  the  allurements  of  the  world,  I 
could  drink  deeply  enough  of  it ;  if  cast  adrift 
from  the  shore,  I  could  with  complete  integrity 
float  on  it,  I  should  never  be  seen  on  the  mill-dam 
again.  If  there  is  any  depth  in  me,  there  is  a  cor 
responding  depth  in  it.  It  is  the  cold  blood  of  the 
gods.  I  paddle  and  bathe  in  their  artery. 

I  do  not  want  a  stick  of  wood  for  so  trivial  a 
use  as  to  burn  even ;  but  they  get  it  over  night, 
and  carve  and  gild  it  that  it  may  please  my  eye. 
What  persevering  lovers  they  are  !  What  infinite 
pains  to  attract  and  delight  us !  They  will  supply 
us  with  fagots  wrapped  in  the  daintiest  packages, 
and  freight  paid ;  sweet-scented  woods,  and  bufst- 
ing  into  flower,  and  resounding  as  if  Orpheus 
had  just  left  them,  —  these  shall  be  our  fuel, 
and  we  still  prefer  to  chaffer  with  the  wood-mer 
chant. 

The  jug  we  found  still  stands  draining  bottom 
up  on  the  bank,  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  house. 
That  river,  —  who  shall  say  exactly  whence  it 


128  LETTERS. 

came,  and  whither  it  goes  ?  Does  aught  that 
flows  come  from  a  higher  source  ?  Many  things 
drift  downward  on  its  surface  which  wrould  enrich 
a  man.  If  you  could  only  be  on  the  alert  all  day, 
and  every  day.  And  the  nights  are  as  long  as  the 
days. 

Do  you  not  think  you  could  contrive  thus  to 
get  woody  fibre  enough  to  bake  your  wheaten 
bread  with?  Would  you  not  perchance  have 
tasted  the  sweet  crust  of  another  kind  of  bread  in 
the  mean  while,  which  ever  hangs  ready  baked  on 
the  bread-fruit  trees  of  the  world  ? 

Talk  of  burning  your  smoke  after  the  wood  has 
been  consumed !  There  is  a  far  more  important 
and  warming  heat,  commonly  lost,  which  precedes 
the  burning  of  the  wood.  It  is  the  smoke  of  in 
dustry,  which  is  incense.  I  had  been  so  thoroughly 
warmed  in  body  and  spirit,  that  when  at  length 
my  fuel  was  housed,  I  came  near  selling  it  to  the 
ash-man,  as  if  I  had  extracted  all  its  heat. 

You  should  have  been  here  to  help  me  get  in  my 
boat.  The  last  time  I  used  it,  November  27th, 
paddling  up  the  Assabet,  I  saw  a  great  round  pine 
log  sunk  deep  in  the  water,  and  with  labor  got  it 
aboard.  When  I  was  floating  this  home  so  gently, 
it  occurred  to  me  why  I  had  found  it.  It  was  to 
make  wheels  with  to  roll  my  boat  into  winter 
.quarters  upon.  So  I  sawed  off  two  thick  rollers 
from  one  end,  pierced  them  for  wheels,  and  then 
of  a  joist  which  I  had  found  drifting  on  the  river 


LETTERS.  129 

in  the  summer,  I  made  an  axle-tree,  and  on  this  I 
rolled  my  boat  out. 

Miss  Mary  Emerson  is  here,  —  the  youngest 
person  in  Concord,  though  about  eighty,  —  and 
the  most  apprehensive  of  a  genuine  thought ;  ear 
nest  to  know  of  your  inner  life ;  most  stimulating 
society ;  and  exceedingly  witty  withal.  She  says 
they  called  her  old  when  she  was  young,  and  she 
has  never  grown  any  older.  I  wish  you  could  see 
her. 

My  books  did  not  arrive  till  November  30th, 
the  cargo  of  the  Asia  having  been  complete  when 
they  reached  Liverpool.  I  have  arranged  them  in 
a  case  which  I  made  in  the  mean  while,  partly  of 
river  boards.  I  have  not  dipped  far  into  the  new 
ones  yet.  One  is  splendidly  bound  and  illumi 
nated.  They  are  in  English,  French,  Latin,  Greek, 
and  Sanscrit.  I  have  not  made  out  the  signifi 
cance  of  this  Godsend  yet. 

Farewell,  and  bright  dreams  to  you  ! 

HENRY   D.  THOREAU. 


6* 


130  LETTERS. 


TO   MR.   D.   E. 

CONCORD,  December  25,  1865. 

FRIEND  R :  — 

Though  you  have  not  shown  your  face  here,  I 
trust  that  you  did  not  interpret  my  last  note  to 
my  disadvantage.  I  remember  that,  among  other 
things,  I  wished  to  break  it  to  you,  that,  owing  to 
engagements,  I  should  not  be  able  to  show  you  so 
much  attention  as  I  could  wish,  or  as  you  had 
shown  to  me.  How  we  did  scour  over  the  coun 
try  !  I  hope  your  horse  will  live  as  long  as  one 
which  I  hear  just  died  in  the  south  of  France  at 
the  age  of  forty.  Yet  I  had  no  doubt  you  would 
get  quite  enough  of  me.  Do  not  give  it  up  so 
easily.  The  old  house  is  still  empty,  and  Hosmer 
is  easy  to  treat  with. 

C was  here  about  ten  days  ago.  I  told 

him  of  my  visit  to  you,  and  that  he  too  must  go 
and  see  you  and  your  country.  This  may  have 
suggested  his  writing  to  you. 

That  island  lodge,  especially  for  some  weeks  in 
a  summer,  and  new  explorations  in  your  vicinity, 
are  certainly  very  alluring  ;  but  such  are  my  en 
gagements  to  myself,  that  I  dare  not  promise  to 
wend  your  way,  but  will  for  the  present  only 
heartily  thank  you  for  your  kind  and  generous 
offer.  When  my  vacation  comes,  then  look  out. 

My  legs  have  grown  considerably  stronger,  and 
that  is  all  that  ails  me. 


LETTERS.  131 

But  I  wish  now  above  all  to  inform  you,  — 
though  I  suppose  you  will  not  be  particularly  in 
terested, —  that  Cholmondeley  has  gone  to  the 
Crimea,  "  a  complete  soldier,"  with  a  design, 
when  he  returns,  if  he  ever  returns,  to  buy  a 
cottage  in  the  South  of  England,  and  tempt  me 
over ;  but  that,  before  going,  he  busied  himself  in 
buying,  and  has  caused  to  be  forwarded  to  me  by 
Chapman,  a  royal  gift,  in  the  shape  of  twenty-one 
distinct  works  (one  in  nine  volumes,  —  forty-four 
volumes  in  all),  almost  exclusively  relating  to  an 
cient  Hindoo  literature,  and  scarcely  one  of  them 
to  be  bought  in  America.  I  am  familiar  with 
many  of  them,  and  know  how  to  prize  them. 

I  send  you  information  of  this  as  I  might  of  the 
birth  of  a  child. 

Please  remember  me  to  all  your  family. 
Yours  truly, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  MR.  D.   R. 

CONCORD,  March  5,  1856. 

DEAR  SIR  :  — 

I  have  been  out  of  town,  else  I  should  have 
acknowledged  your  letter  before.  Though  not  in 
the  best  mood  for  writing,  I  will  say  what  I  can 
now.  You  plainly  have  a  rare,  though  a  cheap, 


132  LETTERS. 

resource  in  your  shanty.  Perhaps  the  time  will 
come  when  every  country-seat  will  have  one,  — 
when  every  country-seat  will  be  one.  I  would  ad 
vise  you  to  see  that  shanty  business  out,  though 
you  go  shanty-mad.  Work  your  vein  till  it  is  ex 
hausted,  or  conducts  you  to  a  broader  one ;  so  that 

C shall  stand  before  your  shanty,  and  say, 

"  That  is  your  house." 

This  has  indeed  been  a  grand  winter  for  me, 
and  for  all  of  us.  I  am  not  considering  how  much 
I  have  enjoyed  it.  What  matters  it  how  happy  or 
unhappy  we  have  been,  if  we  have  minded  our 
business  and  advanced  our  affairs.  I  have  made  it 
a  part  of  my  business  to  wade  in  the  snow,  and 
take  the  measure  of  the  ice.  The  ice  on  our  pond 
was  just  two  feet  thick  on  the  first,  of  March  ;  and 
I  have  to-day  been  surveying  a  wood-lot,  where  I 
sank  about  two  feet  at  every  step. 

It  is  high  time  that  you,  fanned  by  the  warm 
breezes  of  the  Gulf  stream,  had  begun  to  "  lay" 
for  even  the  Concord  hens  have,  though  one  won 
ders  where  they  find  the  raw  material  of  egg-shell 
here.  Beware  how  you  put  off  your  laying  to  any 
later  spring,  else  your  cackling  will  not  have  the 
inspiring  early  spring  sound. 

As  for  visiting  you  in  April,  though  I  am  in 
clined  enough  to  take  some  more  rambles  in  your 
neighborhood,  especially  by  the  seaside,  I  dare  not 
engage  myself,  nor  allow  you  to  expect  me.  The 
truth  is,  I  have  my  enterprises  now  as  ever,  at 


LETTERS.  133 

which  I  tug  with  ridiculous  feebleness,  but  admi 
rable  perseverance,  and  cannot  say  when  I  shall  be 
sufficiently  fancy-free  for  such  an  excursion. 

You  have  done  well  to  write  a  lecture  on 
Covvper.  In  the  expectation  of  getting  you  to 
read  it  here,  I  applied  to  the  curators  of  our  Ly 
ceum  ;  but,  alas !  our  Lyceum  has  been  a  failure 
this  winter  for  want  of  funds.  It  ceased  some 
weeks  since,  with  a  debt,  they  tell  me,  to  be  car 
ried  over  to  the  next  year's  account.  Only  one 
more  lecture  is  to  be  read  by  a  Signor  Somebody, 
an  Italian,  paid  for  by  private  subscription,  as  a 
deed  of  charity  to  the  lecturer.  They  are  not  rich 
enough  to  offer  you  your  expenses  even,  though 
probably,  a  month  or  two  ago,  they  would  have 
been  glad  of  the  chance. 

However,  the  old  house  has  not  failed  yet. 
That  offers  you  lodging  for  an  indefinite  time 
after  you  get  into  it ;  and  in  the  mean  while  I  offer 
you  bed  and  board  in  my  father's  house,  —  always 
excepting  hair-pillows  and  new-fangled  bedding. 

Remember  me  to  your  family. 

Yours, 

H.  D.  T. 


134  LETTERS. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  March  13,  1856. 

MR.  B :  — 

It  is  high  time  I  sent  you  a  word.  I  have 
not  heard  from  Harrisburg,  since  offering  to  go 
there,  and  have  not  been  invited  to  lecture  any 
where  else  the  past  winter.  So  you  see  I  am  fast 
growing  rich.  This  is  quite  right,  for  such  is  my 
relation  to  the  lecture-goers,  I  should  be  sur 
prised  and  alarmed  if  there  were  any  great  call  for 
me.  I  confess  that  I  am  considerably  alarmed 
even  when  I  hear  that  an  individual  wishes  to 
meet  me,  for  my  experience  teaches  me  that  we 
shall  thus  only  be  made  certain  of  a  mutual 
strangeness,  which  otherwise  we  might  never 
have  been  aware  of. 

I  have  not  yet  recovered  strength  enough  for 
such  a  walk  as  you  propose,  though  pretty  well 
again  for  circumscribed  rambles  and  chamber 
work.  Even  now,  I  am  probably  the  greatest 
walker  in  Concord,  —  to  its  disgrace  be  it  said.  I 
remember  our  walks  and  talks  and  sailing  in  the 
past  with  great  satisfaction,  and  trust  that  we  shall 
have  more  of  them  erelong, — have  more  wood- 
ings-up,  —  for  even  in  the  spring  we  must  still 
seek  "  fuel  to  maintain  our  fires." 

As  you  suggest,  we  would  fain  value  one  an 
other  for  what  we  are  absolutely,  rather  than 


LETTERS.  135 

relatively.      How   will  this  do  for  a   symbol   of 
sympathy  ? 


As  for  compliments,  even  the  stars  praise  me, 
and  I  praise  them.  They  and  I  sometimes  belong 
to  a  mutual  admiration  society.  Is  it  not  so  with 
you  ?  I  know  you  of  old.  Are  you  not  tough 
and  earnest  to  be  talked  at,  praised  or  blamed  ? 
Must  you  go  out  of  the  room  because  you  are  the 
subject  of  conversation  ?  Where  will  you  go  to, 
pray  ?  Shall  we  look  into  the  "  Letter  Writer  " 
to  see  what  compliments  are  admissible  ?  I  am 
not  afraid  of  praise,  for  I  have  practised  it  on  my 
self.  As  for  my  deserts,  I  never  took  an  account 
of  that  stock,  and  in  this  connection  care  not 
whether  I  am  deserving  or  not.  When  I  hear 
praise  coming,  do  I  not  elevate  and  arch  myself  to 
hear  it  like  the  sky,  and  as  impersonally  ?  Think 
I  appropriate  any  of  it  to  my  weak  legs  ?  No. 
Praise  away  till  all  is  blue. 

I  see  by  the  newspapers  that  the  season  for 
making  sugar  is  at  hand.  Now  is  the  time, 
whether  you  be  rock,  or  white-maple,  or  hick 
ory.  I  trust  that  you  have  prepared  a  store  of 
sap-tubs  and  sumach-spouts,  and  invested  largely 
in  kettles.  Early  the  first  frosty  morning,  tap 
your  maples,  —  the  sap  will  not  run  in  summer, 


136  LETTEKS. 

you  know.  It  matters  not  how  little  juice  you 
get,  if  you  get  all  you  can,  and  boil  it  down. 
I  made  just  one  crystal  of  sugar  once,  one-twen 
tieth  of  an  inch  cube,  out  of  a  pumpkin,  and 
it  sufficed.  Though  the  yield  be  no  greater  than 
that,  this  is  not  less  the  season  for  it,  and  it  will  be 
not  the  less  sweet,  nay,  it  will  be  infinitely  the 
sweeter. 

Shall,  then,  the  maple  yield  sugar,  and  not 
man  ?  Shall  the  farmer  be  thus  active,  and  surely 
have  so  much  sugar  to  show  for  it,  before  this 
very  March  is  gone,  —  while  I  read  the  news 
paper  ?  While  he  works  in  his  sugar-camp  let 
me  work  in  mine,  —  for  sweetness  is  in  me,  and 
to  sugar  it  shall  come,  —  it  shall  not  all  go  to 
leaves  and  wood.  Am  I  not  a  sugar-maple  man, 
then? 

Boil  down  the  sweet  sap  which  the  spring 
causes  to  flow  within  you.  Stop  not  at  syrup,  — 
go  on  to  sugar,  though  you  present  the  world  with 
but  a  single  crystal,  —  a  crystal  not  made  from 
trees  in  your  yard,  but  from  the  new  life  that  stirs 
in  your  pores.  Cheerfully  skim  your  kettle,  and 
watch  it  set  and  crystallize,  making  a  holiday  of  it 
if  you  will.  Heaven  will  be  propitious  to  you  as 
to  him. 

Say  to  the  farmer,  —  There  is  your  crop ;  here 
is  mine.  Mine  is  a  sugar  to  sweeten  sugar  with. 
If  you  will  listen  to  me,  I  will  sweeten  your  whole 
load,  —  your  whole  life. 


LETTERS.  137 

Then  will  the  callers  ask,  Where  is  B ? 

He  is  in  his  sugar-camp  on  the  mountain-side. 
Let  the  world  await  him. 

Then  will  the  little  boys  bless  you,  and  the  great 
boys  too,  for  such  sugar  is  the  origin  of  many  con 
diments, — B ians  in  the  shops  of  Worcester,  of 

new  form,  with  their  mottos  wrapped  up  in  them. 

Shall  men  taste  only  the  sweetness  of  the  maple 
and  the  cane,  the  coming  year  ? 

A  walk  over  the  crust  to  Asnybumskit,  stand 
ing  there  in  its  inviting  simplicity,  is  tempting  to 
think  of,  —  making  a  fire  on  the  snow  under  some 
rock !  The  very  poverty  of  outward  nature  im 
plies  an  inward  wealth  in  the  walker.  What  a 
Golconda  is  he  conversant  with,  thawing  his  fin 
gers  over  such  a  blaze  !  But,  — but 

Have  you  read  the  new  poem,  "  The  Angel  in 
the  House  "  ?  Perhaps  you  will  find  it  good  for 

you. 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  May  21,  1856. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  have  not  for  a  long  time  been  putting  such 
thoughts  together  as  I  should  like  to  read  to  the 
company  you  speak  of.  I  have  enough  of  that 
sort  to  say,  or  even  read,  but  not  time  now  to 


138  LETTERS. 

arrange  it.  Something  I  have  prepared  might 
prove  for  their  entertainment  or  refreshment  per 
chance  ;  but  I  would  not  like  to  have  a  hat  car 
ried  round  for  it.  I  have  just  been  reading  some 
papers  to  see  if  they  would  do  for  your  company ; 
but  though  I  thought  pretty  well  of  them  as  long 
as  I  read  them  to  myself,  when  I  got  an  auditor  to 
try  them  on,  I  felt  that  they  would  not  answer. 
How  could  I  let  you  drum  up  a  company  to  hear 
them?  In  fine,  what  I  have  is  either  too  scat 
tered  or  loosely  arranged,  or  too  light,  or  else  is 
too  scientific  and  matter  of  fact  (I  run  a  good  deal 
into  that  of  late)  for  so  hungry  a  company. 

I  am  still  a  learner,  not  a  teacher,  feeding  some 
what  omnivorously,  browsing  both  stalk  and 
leaves ;  but  I  shall  perhaps  be  enabled  to  speak 
with  the  more  precision  and  authority  by  and  by, — 
if  philosophy  and  sentiment  are  not  buried  under 
a  multitude  of  details. 

I  do  not  refuse,  but  accept  your  invitation,  only 
changing  the  time.  I  consider  myself  invited  to 
Worcester  once  for  all,  and  many  thanks  to  the 
inviter. 

As  for  the  Harvard  excursion,  will  you  let  me 

suggest  another?  Do  you  and  B come  to 

Concord  on  Saturday,  if  the  weather  promises 
well,  and  spend  the  Sunday  here  on  the  river  or 
hills,  or  both.  So  we  shall  save  some  of  our  money 
(which  is  of  next  importance  to  our  souls),  and 
lose  —  I  do  not  know  what.  You  say  you  talked 


LETTERS.  139 

of  coming  here  before,  now  do  it.  I  do  not  pro 
pose  this  because  I  think  that  I  am  worth  your 
spending  time  with,  but  because  I  hope  that  we 
may  prove  flint  and  steel  to  one  another.  It  is 
at  most  only  an  hour's  ride  farther,  and  you  can 
at  any  rate  do  what  you  please  when  you  get  here. 

Then  we  will  see  if  we  have  any  apology  to 
offer  for  our  existence.  So  come  to  Concord, 
—  come  to  Concord,  —  come  to  Concord  !  or 
your  suit  shall  be  defaulted. 

As  for  the  dispute  about  solitude  and  society, 
any  comparison  is  impertinent.  It  is  an  idling 
down  on  the  plain  at  the  base  of  a  mountain,  in 
stead  of  climbing  steadily  to  its  top.  Of  course 
you  will  be  glad  of  all  the  society  you  can  get  to 
go  up  with.  Will  you  go  to  glory  with  me  ?  is 
the  burden  of  the  song.  I  love  society  so  much 
that  I  swallowed  it  all  at  a  gulp,  —  that  is,  all  that 
came  in  my  way.  It  is  not  that  we  love  to  be 
alone,  but  that  we  love  to  soar,  and  when  we  do 
soar,  the  company  grows  thinner  and  thinner  till 
there  is  none  at  all.  It  is  either  the  tribune  on  the 
plain,  a  sermon  on  the  mount,  or  a  very  private 
ecstasy  still  higher  up.  We  are  not  the  less  to 
aim  at  the  summits,  though  the  multitude  does  not 
ascend  them.  Use  all  the  society  that  will  abet 
you.  But  perhaps  I  do  not  enter  into  the  spirit 

of  your  talk. 

H.  D.  T. 


140  LETTERS. 

TO   MR.  A. 

CONCORD,  September  1, 1856. 

MB.  A :  — 

I  remember,  that,  in  the  spring,  you  invited  me 
to  visit  you.  I  feel  inclined  to  spend  a  day  or  two 
with  you  and  on  your  hills  at  this  season,  return 
ing,  perhaps,  by  way  of  Brattleboro.  What  if  I 
should  take  the  cars  for  Walpole  next  Friday 
morning?  Are  you  at  home?  And  will  it  be 
convenient  and  agreeable  to  you  to  see  me  then  ? 
I  will  await  an  answer. 

I  am  but  poor  company,  and  it  will  not  be 
worth  the  while  to  put  yourself  out  on  my  ac 
count  ;  yet  from  time  to  time  I  have  some  thoughts 
which  would  be  the  better  for  an  airing.  I  also 
wish  to  get  some  hints  from  September  on  the 
Connecticut  to  help  me  understand  that  season  on 
the  Concord ;  to  snuff  the  musty  fragrance  of  the 
decaying  year  in  the  primitive  woods.  There  is 
considerable  cellar-room  in  my  nature  for  such 
stores ;  a  whole  row  of  bins  waiting  to  be  filled, 
before  I  can  celebrate  my  thanksgiving.  Mould 
in  the  richest  of  soils,  yet  I  am  not  mould.  It 
will  always-  be  found  that  one  flourishing  institu 
tion  exists  and  battens  on  another  mouldering  one. 
The  Present  itself  is  parasitic  to  this  extent. 
Your  fellow-traveller, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  141 

TO    MR.  B. 
EAGLESWOOD,  November  19,  1850. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  have  been  here  much  longer  than  I  expected, 
but  have  deferred  answering  you,  because  I  could 
not  foresee  when  I  should  return.  I  do  not  know 
yet  within  three  or  four  days.  This  uncertainty 
makes  it  impossible  for  me  to. appoint  a  day  to 
meet  you,  until  it  shall  be  too  late  to  hear  from 
you  again.  I  think,  therefore,  that  I  must  go 
straight  home.  I  feel  some  objection  to  reading 
that  "  What  shall  it  profit  "  lecture  again  in 
Worcester ;  but  if  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  will 
be  worth  the  while  (it  is  a  grave  consideration),  I 
will  even  make  an  independent  journey  from  Con 
cord  for  that  purpose.  I  have  read  three  of  my  old 
lectures  (that  included)  to  the  Eagleswood  peo 
ple,  and,  unexpectedly,  with  rare  success,  —  i.  e. 
I  was  aware  that  what  I  was  saying  was  silently 
taken  in  by  their  ears. 

You  must  excuse  me  if  I  write  mainly  a  busi 
ness  letter  now,  for  I  am  sold  for  the  time,  —  am 
merely  Thoreau  the  surveyor  here,  —  and  solitude 
is  scarcely  obtainable  in  these  parts. 

Alcott  has  been  here  three  times,  and,  Sunday 
before  hist,  I  went  with  him  and  Greeley,  by  invi 
tation  of  the  last,  to  G.'s  farm,  thirty-six  miles 
north  of  New  York.  The  next  day,  A.  and  I 
heard  Beecher  preach ;  and  what  was  more,  we 


142  LETTERS. 

visited  W the  next  morning,  (A.  had  already 

seen  him,)  and  were  much  interested  and  pro 
voked.  He  is  apparently  the  greatest  democrat 
the  world  has  seen.  Kings  and  Aristocracy  go  by 
the  board  at  once,  as  they  have  long  deserved  to. 
A  remarkably  strong  though  coarse  nature,  of  a 
sweet  disposition,  and  much  prized  by  his  friends. 
Though  peculiar  and  rough  in  his  exterior,  his 
skin  (all  over  (  ?  )  )  red,  he  is  essentially  a  gentle 
man.  I  am  still  somewhat  in  a  quandary  about 
him,  —  feel  that  he  is  essentially  strange  to  me,  at 
any  rate  ;  but  I  am  surprised  by  the  sight  of  him. 
He  is  very  broad,  but,  as  I  have  said,  not  fine. 
He  said  that  I  misapprehended  him.  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  I  do.  He  told  us  that  he  loved  to 
ride  up  and  down  Broadway  all  day  on  an  omni 
bus,  sitting  beside  the  driver,  listening  to  the  roar 
of  the  carts,  and  sometimes  gesticulating  and  de 
claiming  Homer  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  has 
long  been  an  editor  and  writer  for  the  newspapers, 
—  was  editor  of  the  New  Orleans  Crescent  once  ; 
but  now  has  no  employment  but  to  read  and  write 
in  the  forenoon,  and  walk  in  the  afternoon,  like  all 
the  rest  of  the  scribbling  gentry. 

I  shall  probably  be  in  Concord  next  week ;  so 
you  can  direct  to  me  there. 
In  haste, 

H.   D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  143 

TO    MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  December  6,  1856. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  trust  that  you  got  a  note  from  me  at  Eagles- 
wood,  about  a  fortnight  ago.  I  passed  through 
Worcester  on  the  morning  of  the  25th  of  Novem 
ber,  and  spent  several  hours  (from  3.30  to  6.20) 
in  the  travellers'  room  at  the  depot,  as  in  a  dream, 
it  now  seems.  As  the  first  Harlem  train  unex 
pectedly  connected  with  the  first  from  Fitchburg, 
I  did  not  spend  the  forenoon  with  you  as  I  had 
anticipated,  on  account  of  baggage,  &c.  If  it  had 
been  a  seasonable  hour,  I  should  have  seen  you, — 
i.  e.  if  you  had  not  gone  to  a  horse-race.  But 
think  of  making  a  call  at  half  past  three  in  the 
morning !  (would  it  not  have  implied  a  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  courage  in  both  you  and 
me  ?  )  as  it  were,  ignoring  the  fact  that  mankind 
are  really  not  at  home,  —  are  not  out,  but  so 
deeply  in  that  they  cannot  be  seen,  —  nearly  half 
their  hours  at  this  season  of  the  year. 

I  walked  up  and  down  the  main  street,  at  half 
past  five,  in  the  dark,  and  paused  long  in  front  of 

's  store,  trying  to  distinguish  its  features  ; 

considering  whether  I  might  safely  leave  his 
"  Putnam  "  in  the  door-handle,  but  concluded 
not  to  risk  it.  Meanwhile  a  watchman  (?) 
seemed  to  be  watching  me,  and  I  moved  off. 
Took  another  turn  round  there,  and  had  the  very 


144  LETTERS. 

earliest  offer  of  the  Transcript  from  an  urchin  be 
hind,  whom  I  actually  could  not  see,  it  was  so 
dark.  So  I  withdrew,  wondering  if  you  and  B. 
would  know  that  I  had  been  there.  You  little 
dream  who  is  occupying  Worcester  when  you  are 
all  asleep.  Several  things  occurred  there  that 
night  which  I  will  venture  to  say  were  not  put 
into  the  Transcript.  A  cat  caught  a  mouse  at  the 
depOt,  and  gave  it  to  her  kitten  to  play  with.  So 
that  world-famous  tragedy  goes  on  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day,  and  nature  is  emphatically  wrong. 
Also  I  saw  a  young  Irishman  kneel  before  his 
mother,  as  if  in  prayer,  while  she  wiped  a  cinder 
out  of  his  eye  with  her  tongue  ;  and  I  found  that 
it  was  never  too  late  (or  early?)  to  learn  some 
thing.  These  things  transpired  while  you  and  B. 
were,  to  all  practical  purposes,  nowhere,  and  good 
for  nothing,  —  not  even  for  society,  —  not  for 
horse-races,  —  nor  the  taking  back  of  a  Putnam's 
Magazine.  It  is  true,  I  might  have  recalled  you 
to  life,  but  it  would  have  been  a  cruel  act,  con 
sidering  the  kind  of  life  you  would  have  come 
back  to. 

However,  I  would  fain  write  to  you  now  by 
broad  daylight,  and  report  to  you  some  of  my  life, 
such  as  it  is,  and  recall  you  to  your  life,  which  is 
not  always  lived  by  you,  even  by  daylight. 

B !  B !  are  you  awake  ?  are  you  aware 

what  an  ever-glorious  morning  this  is,  —  what 
long-expected,  never-to-be-repeated  opportunity  is 
now  offered  to  get  life  and  knowledge  ? 


LETTERS.  145 

For  my  part,  I  am  trying  to  wake  up,  —  to 
wring  slumber  out  of  my  pores  ;  for,  generally,  I 
take  events  as  unconcernedly  as  a  fence  post,  — 
absorb  wet  and  cold  like  it,  and  am  pleasantly 
tickled  with  lichens  slowly  spreading  over  me. 
Could  I  not  be  content,  then,  to  be  a  cedar  post, 
which  lasts  twenty-five  years  ?  Would  I  not 
rather  be  that  than  the  farmer  that  set  it  ?  or  he 
that  preaches  to  that  farmer  ?  and  go  to  the  heaven 
of  posts  at  last  ?  I  think  I  should  like  that  as  well 
as  any  would  like  it.  But  I  should  not  care  if  I 
sprouted  into  a  living  tree,  put  forth  leaves  and 
flowers,  and  bore  fruit. 

I  am  grateful  for  what  I  am  and  have.  My 
thanksgiving  is  perpetual.  It  is  surprising  how 
contented  one  can  be  with  nothing  definite,  —  only 
a  sense  of  existence.  Well,  anything  for  variety. 
I  am  ready  to  try  this  for  the  next  ten  thousand 
years,  and  exhaust  it.  How  sweet  to  think  of ! 
my  extremities  well  charred,  and  my  intellectual 
part  too,  so  that  there  is  no  danger  of  worm  or  rot 
for  a  long  while.  My  breath  is  sweet  to  me.  O 
how  I  laugh  when  I  think  of  my  vague,  indefinite 
riches.  No  run  on  my  bank  can  drain  it,  for  my 
wealth  is  not  possession  but  enjoyment. 

What  are  all  these  years  made  for?  and  now 
another  winter  come,  so  much  like  the  last  ?  Can't 
we  satisfy  the  beggars  once  for  all  ? 

Have  you  got  in  your  wood  for  this  winter  ? 
What  else  have  you  got  in  ?  Of  what  use  a  great 
7  j 


146  LETTERS. 

fire  on  the  hearth,  and  a  confounded  little  fire  in 
the  heart  ?  Are  you  prepared  to  make  a  decisive 
campaign,  —  to  pay  for  your  costly  tuition,  —  to 
pay  for  the  suns  of  past  summers,  —  for  happi 
ness  and  unhappiness  lavished  upon  you  ? 

Does  not  Time  go  by  swifter  than  the  swiftest 
equine  trotter  or  racker  ? 

Stir  up .  Remind  him  of  his  duties,  which 

outrun  the  date  and  span  of  Worcester's  years  past 
and  to  come.  Tell  him  to  be  sure  that  he  is  on 
the  main  street,  however  narrow  it  may  be,  and  to 
have  a  lit  sign,  visible  by  night  as  well  as  by  day. 

Are  they  not  patient  waiters,  —  they  who  wait 
for  us  ?  But  even  they  shall  not  be  losers. 

December  7. 

That  Walt  Whitman,  of  whom  I  wrote  to  you, 
is  the  most  interesting  fact  to  me  at  present.  I 
have  just  read  his  second  edition  (which  he  gave 
me),  and  it  has  done  me  more  good  than  any  read 
ing  for  a  long  time.  Perhaps  I  remember  best  the 
poem  of  Walt  Whitman,  an  American,  and  the 
Sun-Down  Poem.  There  are  two  or  three  pieces 
in  the  book  which  are  disagreeable,  to  say  the 
least ;  simply  sensual.  He  does  not  celebrate  love 
at  all.  It  is  as  if  the  beasts  spoke.  I  think  that 
men  have  not  been  ashamed  of  themselves  without 
reason.  No  doubt  there  have  always  been  dens 
where  such  deeds  were  unblushingly  recited,  and 
it  is  no  merit  to  compete  with  their  inhabitants. 


LETTERS.  147 

But  even  on  this  side  he  has  spoken  more  truth 
than  any  American  or  modern  that  I  know.  I 
have  found  his  poem  exhilarating,  encouraging. 
As  for  its  sensuality,  —  and  it  may  turn  out  to 
be  less  sensual  than  it  appears,  —  I  do  not  so  much 
wish  that  those  parts  were  not  written,  as  that 
men  and  women  were  so  pure,  that  they  could  read 
them  without  harm,  that  is,  without  understanding 
them.  One  woman  told  me  that  no  woman  could 
read  it,  —  as  if  a  man  could  read  what  a  woman 
could  not.  Of  course  Walt  Whitman  can  com 
municate  to  us  no  experience,  and  if  we  are 
shocked,  whose  experience  is  it  that  we  are  re 
minded  of  ? 

On  the  whole,  it  sounds  to  me  very  brave  and 
American,  after  whatever  deductions.  I  do  not 
believe  that  all  the  sermons,  so  called,  that  have 
been  preached  in  this  land  put  together  are  equal 
to  it  for  preaching. 

We  ought  to  rejoice  greatly  in  him.  He  occa 
sionally  suggests  something  a  little  more  than 
human.  You  can't  confound  him  with  the  other 
inhabitants  of  Brooklyn  or  New  York.  How 
they  must  shudder  when  they  read  him  !  He  is 
awfully  good. 

To  be  sure  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  imposed 
on.  By  his  heartiness  and  broad  generalities  he 
puts  me  into  a  liberal  frame  of  mind  prepared  to 
see  wonders,  —  as  it  were,  sets  me  upon  a  hill  or 
in  the  midst  of  a  plain,  —  stirs  me  well  up,  and 


148  LETTERS. 

then throws  in  a  thousand  of  brick.  Though 

rude  and  sometimes  ineffectual,  it  is  a  great  prim 
itive  poem,  —  an  alarum  or  trumpet-note  ringing 
through  the  American  camp.  Wonderfully  like 
the  Orientals,  too,  considering  that  when  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  read  them,  he  answered,  "  No  : 
tell  me  about  them." 

I  did  not  get  far  in  conversation  with  him,  — 
two  more  being  present,  —  and  among  the  few 
things  which  I  chanced  to  say,  I  remember  that 
one  was,  in  answer  to  him  as  representing  Amer 
ica,  that  I  did  not  think  much  of  America  or  of 
politics,  and  so  on,  which  may  have  been  some 
what  of  a  damper  to  him. 

Since  I  have  seen  him,  I  find  that  I  am  not  dis 
turbed  by  any  brag  or  egoism  in  his  book.  He 
may  turn  out  the  least  of  a  braggart  of  all,  having 
a  better  right  to  be  confident. 

He  is  a  great  fellow. 

H.  T.  D. 


TO  MR.   W. 

CONCORD,  December  12,  1856. 


MR.  W :  — 

It  is  refreshing  to  hear  of  your  earnest  purpose 
with  respect  to  your  culture,  and  I  can  send  you 
no  better  wish  than  that  you  may  not  be  thwarted 


LETTERS.  149 

by  the  cares  and  temptations  of  life.  Depend  on 
it,  now  is  the  accepted  time,  and  probably  you  will 
never  find  yourself  better  disposed  or  freer  to 
attend  to  your  culture  than  at  this  moment. 
When  They  who  inspire  us  with  the  idea  are 
ready,  shall  not  we  be  ready  also? 

I  do  not  remember  anything  which  Confucius 
has  said  directly  respecting  man's  "origin,  pur 
pose,  and  destiny."  He  was  more  practical  than 
that.  Pie  is  full  of  wisdom  applied  to  human  rela 
tions,  —  to  the  private  life,  —  the  family,  —  gov 
ernment,  &c.  It  is  remarkable  that,  according  to 
his  own  account,  the  sum  and  substance  of  his 
teaching  is,  as  you  know,  to  do  as  you  would  be 
done  by. 

He  also  said  (I  translate  from  the  French), 
"  Conduct  yourself  suitably  toward  the  persons  of 
your  family,  then  you  will  be  able  to  instruct  and 
to  direct  a  nation  of  men." 

"  To  nourish  one's  self  with  a  little  rice,  to  drink 
water,  to  have  only  his  bended  arm  to  support  his 
head,  is  a  state  which  has  also  its  satisfaction.  To 
be  rich  and  honored  by  iniquitous  means,  is  for 
me  as  the  floating  cloud  which  passes." 

"  As  soon  as  a  child  is  born  he  must  respect  its 
faculties :  the  knowledge  which  will  come  to  it  by 
and  by  does  not  resemble  at  all  its  present  state. 
If  it  arrive  at  the  age  of  forty  or  fifty  years,  with 
out  having  learned  anything,  it  is  no  more  worthy 
of  any  respect."  This  last,  I  think,  will  speak  to 
your  condition. 


150  LETTERS. 

But  at  this  rate,  I  might  fill  many  letters. 

Our  acquaintance  with  the  ancient  Hindoos  is 
not  at  all  personal.  The  full  names  that  can  be 
relied  upon  are  very  shadowy.  It  is,  however, 
tangible  works  that  we  know.  The  best  I  think  of 
are  the  Bhagvat  Geeta  (an  episode  in  an  ancient 
heroic  poem  called  the  Mahabarat),  the  Vedas,  the 
Vishnu  Purana,  the  Institutes  of  Menu,  &c. 

I  cannot  say  that  Swede nborg  has  been  directly 
and  practically  valuable  to  me,  for  I  have  not  been 
a  reader  of  him,  except  to  a  slight  extent ;  but  I 
have  the  highest  regard  for  him,  and  trust  that  I 
shall  read  his  works  in  some  world  or  other.  He 
had  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  our  interior  and 
spiritual  life,  though  his  illuminations  are  occasion 
ally  blurred  by  trivialities.  He  comes  nearer  to 
answering,  or  attempting  to  answer,  literally, 
your  questions  concerning  man's  origin,  purpose, 
and  destiny,  than  any  of  the  worthies  I  have  re 
ferred  to.  But  I  think  that  that  is  not  altogether 
a  recommendation  ;  since  such  an  answer  to  these 
questions  cannot  be  discovered  any  more  than  per 
petual  motion,  for  which  no  reward  is  now  offered. 
The  noblest  man  it  is,  methinks,  that  knows,  and 
by  his  life  suggests,  the  most  about  these  things. 
Crack  away  at  these  nuts,  however,  as  long  as 
you  can,  — -  the  very  exercise  will  ennoble  you, 
and  you  may  get  something  better  than  the  an 
swer  you  expect. 

Yours, 

H.  D.  THOREAU. 


LETTERS.  151 

TO    MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  December  31, 1856. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  think  it  will  not  be  worth  the  while  for 
me  to  come  to  Worcester  to  lecture  at  all  this 
year.  It  will  be  better  to  wait  till  I  am — perhaps 
unfortunately  —  more  in  that  line.  My  writing 
has  not  taken  the  shape  of  lectures,  and  therefore 
I  should  be  obliged  to  read  one  of  three  or  four 
old  lectures,  the  best  of  which  I  have  read  to  some 
of  your  auditors  before.  I  carried  that  one  which 
I  call  "  Walking,  or  the  Wild,"  to  Amherst,  N.  H., 
the  evening  of  that  cold  Thursday,  and  I  am  to 
read  another  at  Fitchburg,  February  3.  I  am 
simply  their  hired  man.  This  will  probably  be 
the  extent  of  my  lecturing  hereabouts. 

I  must  depend  on  meeting  Mr.  W some 

other  time. 

Perhaps  it  always  costs  me  more  than  it  comes 
to  to  lecture  before  a  promiscuous  audience.  It  is 
an  irreparable  injury  done  to  my  modesty  even,  — 
I  become  so  indurated. 

O  solitude !  obscurity !  meanness !  I  never 
triumph  so  as  when  I  have  the  least  success  in 
my  neighbor's  eyes.  The  lecturer  gets  fifty  dol 
lars  a  night;  but  what  becomes  of  his  winter? 
What  consolation  will  it  be  hereafter  to  have  fifty 
thousand  dollars  for  living  in  the  world  ?  I  should 
like  not  to  exchange  any  of  my  life  for  money. 


152  LETTERS. 

These,  you  may  think,  are  reasons  for  not  lec 
turing,  when  you  have  no  great  opportunity.  It  is 
even  so,  perhaps.  I  could  lecture  on  dry  oak 
leaves,  I  could  ;  but  who  could  hear  me  ?  If  I 
were  to  try  it  on  any  large  audience,  I  fear  it 
would  be  no  gain  to  them,  and  a  positive  loss  to 
me.  I  should  have  behaved  rudely  toward  my 
rustling  friends. 

I  am  surveying,  instead  of  lecturing  at  present. 
Let  me  have  a  skimming  from  your  u  pan  of  un- 

wrinkled  cream." 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MR.  R. 

COKCORD,  April  1,  1857. 

DEAR  R :  — 

I  got  your  note  of  welcome,  night  before  last.  1 
expect,  if  the  weather  is  favorable,  to  take  the  4.30 
train  from  Boston  to-morrow,  Thursday,  p.  M.,  for 
I  hear  of  no  noon  train,  and  shall  be  glad  to  find 
your  wagon  at  Tarkile  Hill,  for  I  see  it  will  be 
rather  late  for  going  across  lots. 

I  have  seen  all  the  spring  signs  you  mention, 
and  a  few  more,  even  here.  Nay,  I  heard  one  frog 
peep  nearly  a  week  ago,  —  metbinks  the  very  first 
one  in  all  this  region.  I  wish  that  there  were  a 
few  more  signs  of  spring  in  myself;  however,  I 
take  it  that  there  are  as  many  within  us  as  we 
think  we  hear  without  us.  I  am  decent  for  a 


LETTERS.  153 

steady  pace,  but  not  yet  for  a  race.  I  have  a  little 
cold  at  present,  and  you  speak  of  rheumatism 
about  the  head  and  shoulders.  Your  frost  is  not 
quite  out.  I  suppose  that  the  earth  itself  has  a 
little  cold  and  rheumatism  about  these  times ;  but 
all  these  things  together  produce  a  very  fair  general 
result.  In  a  concert,  you  know,  we  must  sing  our 
parts  feebly  sometimes,  that  we  may  not  injure  the 
general  effect.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  my  ...two- 
year-old  invalidity  had  been  a  positively  charming 
feature  to  some  amateurs  favorably  located.  Why 
not  a  blasted  man  as  well  as  a  blasted  tree,  on  your 
lawn  ? 

If  you  should  happen  not  to  see  me  by  the  train 
named,  do  not  go  again,  but  wait  at  home  for  me, 
or  a  note  from 

Yours, 

HENRY   D.  THOREAU, 


TO   MR.  W. 

CONCORD,  April  26,  1857. 
MR.  W :  — 

I  see  that  you  are  turning  a  broad  furrow  among 
the  books,  but  I  trust  that  some  very  private  jour 
nal  all  the  while  holds  its  own  through  their  midst. 
Books  can  only  reveal  us  to  ourselves,  and  as  often 
as  they  do  us  this  service,  we  lay  them  aside.  I 
7* 


154  LETTERS. 

should  say,- read  Goethe's  Autobiography,  by  all 
means,  also  Gibbon's,  Haydon  the  Painter's,  and 
our  Franklin's  of  course ;  perhaps  also  Alfieri's, 
Benvenuto  Cellini's,  and  De  Quincey's  Confessions 
of  an  Opium  Eater,  —  since  you  like  autobiog 
raphy.  I  think  you  must  read  Coleridge  again, 
and  further,  skipping  all  his  theology,  i.  e.  if  you 
value  precise  definitions  and  a  discriminating  use 
of  language.  By  the  way,  read  De  Quincey's 
Reminiscences  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth. 

How  shall  we  account  for  our  pursuits,  if  they 
are  original  ?  We  get  the  language  with  which 
to  describe  our  various  lives  out  of  a  common 
mint.  If  others  have  their  losses  which  they  are 
busy  repairing,  so  have  I  mine,  and  their  hound 
and  horse  may  perhaps  be  the  symbols  of  some  of 
them.  But  also  I  have  lost,  or  am  in  danger  of 
losing,  a  far  finer  and  more  ethereal  treasure, 
which  commonly  no  loss  of,  which  they  are  con 
scious,  will  symbolize.  This  I  answer  hastily  and 
with  some  hesitation,  according  as  I  now  under 
stand  my  words 

Methinks  a  certain  polygamy  with  its  troubles 
is  the  fate  of  almost  all  men.  They  are 
married  to  two  wives :  their  genius  (a  celestial 
muse),  and  also  to  some  fair  daughter  of  the 
earth.  Unless  these  two  were  fast  friends  before 
marriage,  and  so  are  afterward,  there  will  be  but 
little  peace  in  the  house. 


LETTERS.  155 

TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  August  18, 1857. 

MR.  B :  — 

Fifteentlily.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  need  some 
absorbing  pursuit.  It  does  not  matter  much  what  it 
is,  so  it  be  honest.  Such  employment  will  be  favor 
able  to  your  development  in  more  characteristic  and 
important  directions.  You  know  there  must  be 
impulse  enough  for  steerage  way,  though  it  be  not 
toward  your  port,  to  prevent  your  drifting  help 
lessly  on  to  rocks  or  shoals.  Some  sails  are  set 
for  this  purpose  only.  There  is  the  large  fleet  of 
scholars  and  men  of  science,  for  instance,  always 
to  be  seen  standing  off  and  on  on  every  coast,  and 
saved  thus  from  running  on  to  reefs,  who  will  at 
last  run  into  their  proper  haven,  we  trust. 

It  is  a  pity  you  were  not  here  with  and 

.  I  think  that  in  this  case,  for  a  rarity,  the 

more  the  merrier. 

You  perceived  that  I  did  not  entertain  the  idea 
of  our  going  together  to  Maine  on  such  an  excur 
sion  as  I  had  planned.  The  more  I  thought  of  it, 
the  more  imprudent  it  appeared  to  me.  I  did 
think  to  have  written  to  you  before  going,  though 
not  to  propose  your  going  also  ;  but  I  went  at  last 
very  suddenly,  and  could  only  have  written  a  busi 
ness  letter,  if  I  had  tried,  when  there  was  no  busi 
ness  to  be  accomplished.  I  have  now  returned, 
and  think  I  have  had  a  quite  profitable  journey, 


156  LETTERS. 

chiefly  from  associating  with  an  intelligent  Indian. 
My  companion,  E H ,  also  found  his  ac 
count  in  it,  though  he  suffered  considerably  from 
being  obliged  to  carry  unusual  loads  over  wet  and 
rough  "  carries,"  —  in  one  instance  five  miles 
through  a  swamp,  where  the  water  was  frequently 
up  to  our  knees,  and  the  fallen  timber  higher  than 
our  heads.  He  went  over  the  ground  three  times, 
not  being  able  to  carry  all  his  load  at  once.  This 
prevented  his  ascending  Ktaadn.  Our  best  nights 
were  those  when  it  rained  the  hardest,  on  account 
of  the  mosquitos.  I  speak  of  these  things,  which 
were  not  unexpected,  merely  to  account  for  my 
not  inviting  you. 

Having  returned,  I  flatter  myself  that  the  world 
appears  in  some  respects  a  little  larger,  and  not,  as 
usual,  smaller  and  shallower,  for  having  extended 
my  range.  I  have  made  a  short  excursion  into 
the  new  world  which  the  Indian  dwells  in,  or  is. 
He  begins  where  we  leave  off.  It  is  worth  the 
while  to  detect  new  faculties  in  man,  —  he  is  so 
much  the  more  divine  ; .  and  anything  that  fairly 
excites  our  admiration  expands  us.  The  Indian, 
who  can  find  his  way  so  wonderfully  in  the  woods, 
possesses  so  much  intelligence  which  the  white 
man  does  not,  —  and  it  increases  my  own  capacity, 
as  well  as  faith,  to  observe  it.  I  rejoice  to  find  that 
intelligence  flows  in  other  channels  than  I  knew. 

o 

It  redeems  for  me  portions  of  what  seemed  brut 
ish  before. 


LETTERS.  157 

It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  find  that  your  oldest 
convictions  are  permanent.  With  regard  to  essen 
tials,  I  have  never  had  occasion  to  change  my 
mind.  The  aspect  of  the  world  varies  from  year 
to  year,  as  the  landscape  is  differently  clothed, 
but  I  find  that  the  truth  is  still  true,  and  I  never 
regret  any  emphasis  which  it  may  have  inspired. 
Ktaadn  is  there  still,  but  much  more  surely  my  old 
conviction  is  there,  resting  with  more  than  moun 
tain  breadth  and  weight  on  the  world,  the  source 
still  of  fertilizing  streams,  and  affording  glorious 
views  from  its  summit,  if  I  can  get  up  to  it  again. 
As  the  mountains  still  stand  on  the  plain,  and  far 
more  unchangeable  and  permanent,  —  stand  still 
grouped  around,  farther  or  nearer  to  my  maturer 
eye,  the  ideas  which  I  have  entertained, — the  ever 
lasting  teats  from  which  we  draw  our  nourishment. 

H.  D.  T. 


TO   MR.,  D.    R. 

CONCORD,  August  18,  1857. 

DEAR  SIR  :  — 

Your  Wilson  Flagg  seems  a  serious  person,  and 
it  is  encouraging  to  hear  of  a  contemporary  who 
recognizes  Nature  so  squarely,  and  selects  such  a 
theme  as  "Barns."  (I  would  rather  "Mount 
Auburn"  were  omitted.)  But  he  is  not  alert 
enough.  He  wants  stirring  up  with  a  pole.  He 


158  LETTERS. 

should  practise  turning  a  series  of  somersets  rap 
idly,  or  jump  up  and  see  how  many  times  he  can 
strike  his  feet  together  before  coming  down.  Let 
him  make  the  earth  turn  round  now  the  other 
way,  and  whet  his  wits  on  it,  whichever  way  it 
goes,  as  on  a  grindstone  ;  in  short,  see  how  many 
ideas  he  can  entertain  at  once. 

His  style,  as  I  remember,  is  singularly  vague  (I 
refer  to  the  book),  and,  before  I  got  to  the  end  of 
the  sentences,  I  was  off  the  track.  If  you  indulge 
in  long  periods,  you  must  be  sure  to  have  a  snap 
per  at  the  end.  As  for  style  of  writing,  if  one  has 
anything  to  say,  it  drops  from  him  simply  and 
directly,  as  a  stone  falls  to  the  ground.  There 
are  no  two  ways  about  it,  but  down  it  comes,  and 
he  may  stick  in  the  points  and  stops  wherever  he 
can  get  a  chance.  New  ideas  come  into  this  world 
somewhat  like  falling  meteors,  with  a  flash  and  an 
explosion,  and  perhaps  somebody's  castle-roof  per 
forated.  To  try  to  polish  the  stone  in  its  descent,  to 
give  it  a  peculiar  turn,  and  make  it  whistle  a  tune, 
perchance,  would  be  of  no  use,  if  it  were  possible. 
Your  polished  stuff  turns  out  not  to  be  meteoric, 
but  of  this  earth.  However,  there  is  plenty  of 
time,  and  Nature  is  an  admirable  schoolmistress. 

Speaking  of  correspondence,  you  ask  me  if  I 
"  cannot  turn  over  a  new  leaf  in  that  line."  I 
certainly  could  if  I  were  to  receive  it ;  but  just 
then  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  your  page  was 
dated  "  May  10,"  though  mailed  in  August,  and 


LETTERS.  .  159 

it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  seen  you  since  that 
date  this  year.  Looking  again,  it  appeared  that 
your  note  was  written  in  '56  ! !  However,  it  was 
a  new  leaf  to  me,  and  I  turned  it  over  with  as  much 
interest  as  if  it  had  heen  written  the  day  before. 
Perhaps  you  kept  it  so  long,  in  order  that  the 
manuscript  and  subject-matter  might  be  more  in 
keeping  with  the  old-fashioned  paper  on  which  it 
was  written. 

I  travelled  the  length  of  Cape  Cod  on  foot,  soon 
after  you  were  here,  and,  within  a  few  days,  have 
returned  from  the  wilds  of  Maine,  where  I  have 
made  a  journey  of  three  hundred  and  twenty-five 
miles  with  a  canoe  and  an  Indian,  and  a  single 

white  companion, — E H ,  Esq.,  of  this 

town,  lately  from  California,  —  traversing  the 
headwaters  of  the  Kennebeck,  Penobscot,  and  St. 
John's. 

Can't  you  extract  any  advantage  out  of  that  de 
pression  of  spirits  you  refer  to  ?  It  suggests  to  me 
cider-mills,  wine-presses,  &c.,  &c.  All  kinds  of 
pressure  or  power  should  be  used  and  made  to 
turn  some  kind  of  machinery. 

C was  just  leaving  Concord  for  Plymouth 

when  I  arrived,  but  said  he  should  be  here  again  in 
two  or  three  days. 

Please  remember  me  to  your  family,  and  say 
that  I  have  at  length  learned  to  sing  Tom  Bowlin 
according  to  the  notes. 

Yours  truly, 

HENRY   D.  THOREAU. 


160  LETTERS. 


TO  MR.  D.  K. 

CONCORD,  September  9,  1857. 

FRIEND  R :  — 

I  thank  you  for  your  kind  invitation  to  visit 
you,  but  I  have  taken  so  many  vacations  this 
year,  —  at  New  Bedford,  Cape  Cod,  and  Maine, 
—  that  any  more  relaxation  —  call  it  rather  dis 
sipation  —  will  cover  me  with  shame  and  disgrace. 
I  have  not  earned  what  I  have  already  enjoyed. 
As  some  heads  cannot  carry  much  wine,  so  it 
would  seem  that  I  cannot  bear  so  much  society  as 
you  can.  I  have  an  immense  appetite  for  solitude, 
like  an  infant  for  sleep,  and  if  I  don't  get  enough 
of  it  this  year,  I  shall  cry  all  the  next. 

My  mother's  house  is  full  at  present ;  but  if  it 
were  not,  I  would  have  no  right  to  invite  you 
hither,  while  entertaining  such  designs  as  I  have 
hinted  at.  However,  if  you  care  to  storm  the 
town,  I  will  engage  to  take  some  afternoon  walks 
with  you,  —  retiring  into  profoundest  solitude  the 
most  sacred  part  of  the  day. 

Yours  sincerely, 

H.  D.  T. 


LETTERS.  161 

TO    MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  November  16,  1857. 

MR.  B :  — 

You  have  got  the  start  again.  It  was  I  that 
owed  you  a  letter  or  two,  if  I  mistake  not. 

They  make  a  great  ado  now-a-days  about  hard 
times ;  but  I  think  that  the  community  generally, 
ministers  and  all,  take  a  wrong  view  of  the  mat 
ter,  though,  some  of  the  ministers  preaching  ac 
cording  to  a  formula,  may  pretend  to  take  a  right 
one.  This  general  failure,  both  private  and  pub 
lic,  is  rather  occasion  for  rejoicing,  as  reminding  us 
whom  we  have  at  the  helm,  —  that  justice  is  al 
ways  done.  If  our  merchants  did  not  most  of 
them  fail,  and  the  banks  too,  my  faith  in  the  old 
laws  of  the  world  would  be  staggered.  The  state 
ment  that  ninety-six  in  a  hundred  doing  such  busi 
ness  surely  break  down,  is  perhaps  the  sweetest 
fact  that  statistics  have  revealed,  —  exhilarating  as 
the  fragrance  of  sallows  in  spring.  Does  it  not 
say  somewhere,  "  The  Lord  reigneth,  let  the  earth 
rejoice"?  If  thousands  are  thrown  out  of  em 
ployment,  it  suggests  that  they  were  not  well 
employed.  Why  don't  they  take  the  hint  ?  It  is 
not  enough  to  be  industrious ;  so  are  the  ants. 
What  are  you  industrious  about  ? 

The  merchants  and  company  have  long  laughed 
at  transcendentalism,  higher  laws,  &c.,  crying, 
"  None  of  your  moonshine,"  as  if  they  were  an- 


162  LETTERS 

cliored  to  something  not  only  definite,  but  sure 
and  permanent.  If  there  was  any  institution 
which  was  presumed  to  rest  on  a  solid  and  secure 
basis,  and  more  than  any  other  represented  this 
boasted  common  sense,  prudence,  and  practical 
talent,  it  was  the  bank ;  and  now  those  very  banks 
are  found  to  be  mere  reeds  shaken  by  the  wrind. 
Scarcely  one  in  the  land  has  kept  its  promise.  It 
would  seem  as  if  you  only  need  live  forty  years 
in  any  age  of  this  world,  to  see  its  most  promising 
government  become  the  government  of  Kansas, 
and  banks  nowhere.  Not  merely  the  Brook 
Farm  and  Fourierite  communities,  but  now  the 
community  generally  has  failed.  But  there  is  the 
moonshine  still,  serene,  beneficent,  and  unchanged. 
Hard  times,  I  say,  have  this  value,  among  others, 
that  they  show  us  what  such  promises  are  worth, 
—  where  the  sure  banks  are.  I  heard  some  mer 
chant  praised  the  other  day,  because  he  had  paid 
some  of  his  debts,  though  it  took  nearly  all  he 
had  (why,  I  've  done  as  much  as  that  myself  many 
times,  and  a  litttle  more),  and  then  gone  to  board. 
What  if  he  has  ?  I  hope  he  's  got  a  good  boarding- 
place,  and  can  pay  for  it.  It 's  not  everybody  that 
can.  However,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  cheaper  to 
keep  house,  i.  e.  if  you  don't  keep  too  big  a  one. 

Men  will  tell  you  sometimes  that  "  money  's 
hard."  That  shows  it  was  not  made  to  eat,  I 
say.  Only  think  of  a  man  in  this  new  world,  in 
his  log  cabin,  in  the  midst  of  a  corn  and  potato 


LETTERS.  163 

patch,  with  a  sheepfold  on  one  side,  talking  about 
money  being  hard !  So  are  flints  hard ;  there  is 
no  alloy  in  them.  What  has  that  to  do  with  his 
raising  his  food,  cutting  his  wood  (or  breaking  it), 
keeping  in-doors  when  it  rains,  and,  if  need  be, 
spinning  and  weaving  his  clothes  ?  Some  of  those 
who  sank  with  the  steamer  the  other  day  found 
out  that  money  was  heavy  too.  Think  of  a  man's 
priding  himself  on  this  kind  of  wealth,  as  if  it 
greatly  enriched  him.  As  if  one  struggling  in 
mid-ocean  with  a  bag  of  gold  on  his  back  should 
gasp  out,  "  I  am  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars."  I  see  them  struggling  just  as  ineffectually 
on  dry  land,  nay,  even  more  hopelessly,  for,  in  the 
former  case,  rather  than  sink,  they  wrill  finally  let 
the  bag  go ;  but  in  the  latter  they  are  pretty  sure 
to  hold  and  go  down  with  it.  I  see  them  swim 
ming  about  in  their  great-coats,  collecting  their 
rents,  really  getting  their  dues,  drinking  bitter 
draughts  which  only  increase  their  thirst,  be 
coming  more  and  more  water-logged,  till  finally 
they  sink  plumb  down  to  the  bottom.  But  enough 
of  this. 

Have  you  ever  read  Ruskin's  books  ?  If  not,  I 
would  recommend  you  to  try  the  second  and  third 
volumes  (not  parts)  of  his  Modern  Painters.  I 
am  now  reading  the  fourth,  and  have  read  most  of 
his  other  books  lately.  They  are  singularly  good 
and  encouraging,  though  not  without  crudeness 
and  bigotry.  The  themes  in  the  volumes  referred 


164  LETTERS. 

to  are  Infinity,  Beauty,  Imagination,  Love  of  Na 
ture,  &c.,  —  all  treated  in  a  very  living  manner. 
I  am  rather  surprised  by  them.  It  is  remarkable 
that  these  things  should  be  said  with  reference 
to  painting  chiefly,  rather  than  literature.  The 
Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  too,  is  made  of  good 
stuff;  but,  as  I  remember,  there  is  too  much  about 
art  in  it  for  me  and  the  Hottentots.  We  want  to 
know  about  matters  and  things  in  general.  Our 
house  is  as  yet  a  hut. 

You  must  have  been  enriched  by  your  solitary 
walk  over  the  mountains.  I  suppose  that  I  feel  the 
same  awe  when  on  their  summits  that  many  do  on 
entering  a  church.  To  see  what  kind  of  earth  that 
is  on  which  you  have  a  house  and  garden  some 
where,  perchance !  It  is  equal  to  the  lapse  of 
many  years.  You  must  ascend  a  mountain  to 
learn  your  relation  to  matter,  and  so  to  your  own 
body,  for  it  is  at  home  there,  though  you  are  not. 
It  might  have  been  composed  there,  and  will  have 
no  further  to  go  to  return  to  dust  there,  than  in 
your  garden ;  but  your  spirit  inevitably  comes 
away,  and  brings  your  body  with  it,  if  it  lives. 
Just  as  awful  really,  and  as  glorious,  is  your  gar 
den.  See  how  I  can  play  with  my  fingers  !  They 
are  the  funniest  companions  I  have  ever  found. 
Where  did  they  come  from  ?  What  strange  con 
trol  I  have  over  them!  Who  am  I?  What  are 
they?  —  those  little  peaks  —  call  them  Madison, 
Jefferson,  Lafayette.  What  is  the  matter  f  My 


LETTERS.  165 

fingers  ten,  I  say.  Why,  erelong,  they  may 
form  the  topmost  crystal  of  Mount  Washington. 
I  go  up  there  to  see  my  body's  cousins.  There 
are  some  fingers,  toes,  bowels,  &c.,  that  I  take  an 
interest  in,  and  therefore  I  am  interested  in  all 
their  relations. 

Let  me  suggest  a  theme  for  you  :  to  state  to 
yourself  precisely  and  completely  what  that  walk 
over  the  mountains  amounted  to  for  you,  —  re 
turning  to  this  essay  again  and  again,  until  you 
are  satisfied  that  all  that  was  important  in  your 
experience  is  in  it.  Give  this  good  reason  to  your 
self  for  having  gone  over  the  mountains,  for  man 
kind  is  ever  going  over  a  mountain.  Don't  suppose 
that  you  can  tell  it  precisely  the  first  dozen  times 
you  try,  but  at  'em  again,  especially  when,  after  a 
sufficient  pause,  you  suspect  that  you  are  touching 
the  heart  or  summit  of  the  matter,  reiterate  your 
blows  there,  and  account  for  the  mountain  to  your 
self.  Not  that  the  story  need  be  long,  but  it  will 
take  a  long  while  to  make  it  short.  It  did  not  take 
very  long  to  get  over  the  mountain,  you  thought ; 
but  have  you  got  over  it  indeed  ?  If  you  have  been 
to  the  top  of  Mount  Washington,  let  me  ask, 
what  did  you  find  there  ?  That  is  the  way  they 
prove  witnesses,  you  know.  Going  up  there  and 
being  blown  on  is  nothing.  We  never  do  much 
climbing  while  we  are  there,  but  we  eat  our 
luncheon,  &c.,  very  much  as  at  home.  It  is  after 
we  get  home  that  we  really  go  over  the  mountain, 


166  LETTERS. 

if  ever.  What  did  the  mountain  say  ?  What 
did  the  mountain  do  ? 

I  keep  a  mountain  anchored  off  eastward  a  little 
way,  which  I  ascend  in  my  dreams  both  awake 
and  asleep.  Its  broad  base  spreads  over  a  village 
or  two,  which  do  not  know  it;  neither  does  it 
know  them,  nor  do  I  when  I  ascend  it.  I  can  see 
its  general  outline  as  plainly  now  in  my  mind  as 
that  of  Wachuset.  I  do  not  invent  in  the  least, 
but  state  exactly  what  I  see.  I  find  that  I  go  up 
it  when  I  am  light-footed  and  earnest.  It  ever 
smokes  like  an  altar  with  its  sacrifice.  I  am  not 
aware  that  a  single  villager  frequents  it  or  knows 
of  it.  I  keep  this  mountain  to  ride  instead  of  a 
horse. 

Do  you  not  mistake  about  seeing  Moosehead 
Lake  from  Mount  Washington?  That  must  be 
about  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  distant,  or 
nearly  twice  as  far  as  the  Atlantic,  which  last 
some  doubt  if  they  can  see  thence.  Was  it  not 
Umbagog  ? 

Dr.  Solger  has  been  lecturing  in  the  ves-try  in 
this  town  on  Geography,  to  Sanborn's  scholars,  for 

several  months  past,  at  five  P.  M.  E and 

A have  been  to  hear  him.  I  was  surprised 

when  the  former  asked  me,  the  other  day,  if  I  was 
not  going  to  hear  Dr.  Solger.  What,  to  be  sitting 
in  a  meeting-house  cellar  at  that  time  of  day, 
when  you  might  possibly  be  out-doors  !  I  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  What  was  the  sun  made 


LETTERS.  167 

for  ?  If  he  does  not  prize  daylight,  I  do.  Let 
him  lecture  to  owls  and  dormice.  He  must  be  a 
wonderful  lecturer  indeed  who  can  keep  me  in 
doors  at  such  an  hour,  when  the  night  is  coming 
in  which  no  man  can  walk. 

Are  you  in  want  of  amusement  now-a-days  ? 
Then  play  a  little  at  the  game  of  getting  a  living. 
There  never  was  anything  equal  to  it.  Do  it  tem 
perately,  though,  and  don't  sweat.  Don't  let  this 
secret  out,  for  I  have  a  design  against  the  Opera. 
OPERA  !  !  Pass  along  the  exclamations,  devil. 

Now  is  the  time  to  become  conversant  with 
your  wood-pile  (this  comes  under  Work  for  the 
Month),  and  be  sure  you  put  some  warmth  into  it 
by  your  mode  of  getting  it.  Do  not  consent  to 
be  passively  warmed.  An  intense  degree  of  that 
is  the  hotness  that  is  threatened.  But  a  positive 
warmth  within  can  withstand  the  fiery  furnace,  as 
the  vital  heat  of  a  living  man  can  withstand  the 
heat  that  cooks  meat. 

HENKY  D.  THOREAU. 


168  LETTERS. 


TO   MR.  D.  R. 

CONCORD,  June  30,  1858. 

FRIEND  K :  — 

I  am  on  the  point  of  starting  for  the  White 

Mountains  in  a  wagon  with  my  neighbor  E 

II ,  and  I  write  to  you  now  rather  to  apologize 

for  not  writing,  than  to  answer  worthily  your 
three  notes.  I  thank  you  heartily  for  them.  You 
will  not  care  for  a  little  delay  in  acknowledging 
them,  since  your  date  shows  that  you  can  afford  to 
wait.  Indeed,  my  head  has  been  so  full  of  com 
pany,  &c.,  that  I  could  not  reply  to  you  fitly  be 
fore,  nor  can  I  now. 

As  for  preaching  to  men  these  days  in  the  Wai- 
den  strain,  is  it  of  any  consequence  to  preach  to 
an  audience  of  men  who  can  fail,  or  who  can  be 
revived  ?  There  are  few  beside.  Is  it  any  success 
to  interest  these  parties  ?  If  a  man  has  speculated 
and  failed,  he  will  probably  do  these  things  again, 
in  spite  of  you  or  me. 

I  confess  that  it- is  rare  that  I  rise  to  sentiment 
in  my  relations  to  men,  —  ordinarily  to  a  mere 
patient,  or  may  be  wholesome  good-will.  I  can 
imagine  something  more,  but  the  truth  compels 
me  to  regard  the  ideal  and  the  actual  as  two 
things. 

Channing  has  come,  and  as  suddenly  gone,  and 
left  a  short  poem,  "  Near  Home,"  published  (?) 
or  printed  by  Monroe,  which  I  have  hardly  had 


LETTERS.  169 

time  to  glance  at.  As  you  may  guess,  I  learn 
nothing  of  you  from  him. 

You  already  foresee  my  answer  to  your  invita 
tion  to  make  you  a  summer  visit :  I  am  bound  for 
the  mountains.  But  I  trust  that  you  have  van 
quished,  ere  this,  those  dusky  demons  that  seem  to 
lurk  around  the  Head  of  the  River.  You  know 
that  this  warfare  is  nothing  but  a  kind  of  night 
mare,  and  it  is  our  thoughts  alone  which  give 
those  tmworthies  any  body  or  existence. 

I  made  an  excursion  with  B ,  of  Worcester, 

to  Monadnock,  a  few  weeks  since.  We  took  our 
blankets  and  food,  spent  two  nights  on  the  moun 
tain,  and  did  not  go  into  a  house. 

A has  been  very  busy  for  a  long  time  re 
pairing  an  old  shell  of  a  house,  and  I  have  seen 
very  little  of  him.  I  have  looked  more  at  the 

houses  which  birds  build.     W made   us  all 

very  generous  presents  from  his  nursery  in  the 
spring.  Especially  did  he  remember  A . 

Excuse  me  for  not  writing  any  more  at  present, 
and  remember  me  to  your  family. 
Yours, 

H.   D.  THOEEAU. 


170  LETTERS. 


TO    MR.  D.  R. 

CONCORD.  November  6,  1858. 

FRIEND  R :  — 

I  was  much  pleased  with  your  lively  and  life 
like  account  of  your  voyage.  You  were  more 
than  repaid  for  your  trouble  after  all.  The  coast 
of  Nova  Scotia,  which  you  sailed  along  from 
Windsor  westward,  is  particularly  interesting  to 
the  historian  of  this  country,  having  been  settled 
earlier  than  Plymouth.  Your  "  Isle  of  Haut  "  is 
properly  "  Isle  Haute,"  or  the  High  Island  of 
Champlain's  map.  There  is  another  off  the  coast 
of  Maine.  By  the  way,  the  American  elk,  of 
American  authors,  (Cervus  Canadensis,)  is  a  dis 
tinct  animal  from  the  moose  (Cervus  alces),  though 
the  latter  is  also  called  elk  by  many. 

You  drew  a  very  vivid  portrait  of  the  Australian, 
—  short  and  stout,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
his  book  inspired  by  beer,  Pot  First,  Pot  Second, 
&c.  I  suspect  that  he  must  be  pot-bellied  withal. 
Methinks  I  see  the  smoke  going  up  from  him  as 
from  a  cottage  on  the  moor.  If  he  does  not 
quench  his  genius  with  his  beer,  it  may  burst  into 
a  clear  flame  at  last.  However,  perhaps  he  inten 
tionally  adopts  the  low  style. 

What  do  you  mean  by  that  ado  about  smoking, 
and  my  "  purer  tastes  "  ?  I  should  like  his  pipe 
as  well  as  his  beer,  at  least.  Neither  of  them  is 
so  bad  as  to  be  "  highly  connected,"  which  you  say 


LETTERS.  171 

he  is,  unfortunately.  No !  I  expect  nothing  but 
pleasure  in  "  smoke  from  your  pipe." 

You  and  the  Australian  must  have  put  your 
heads  together  when  you  concocted  those  titles,  — 
with  pipes  in  your  mouths  over  a  pot  of  beer.  I 
suppose  that  your  chapters  are,  Whiff  the  First, 
Whiff  the  Second,  &c.  But  of  course  it  is  a  more 
modest  expression  for  "  Fire  from  my  Genius." 

You  must  have  been  very  busy  since  you  came 
back,  or  before  you  sailed,  to  have  brought  out 
your  History,  of  whose  publication  I  had  not 
heard.  I  suppose  that  I  have  read  it  in  the  Mer 
cury.  Yet  I  am  curious  to  see  how  it  looks  in  a 
volume,  with  your  name  on  the  title-page. 

I  am  more  curious  still  about  the  poems.  Pray 
put  some  sketches  into  the  book :  your  shanty  for 

frontispiece  ;  A and  W 's  boat  (if  you 

can)  running  for  Cuttyhunk  in  a  tremendous 
gale  ;  not  forgetting  "  Be  honest  boys,"  &c.,  near 
by ;  the  Middleborough  Ponds,  with  a  certain 
island  looming  in  the  distance ;  the  Quaker  meet 
ing-house,  and  the  Brady  House,  if  you  like  ;  the 
villagers  catching  smelts  with  dip-nets  in  the 
twilight,  at  the  Head  of  the  River,  &c.,  &c.  Let 
it  be  a  local  and  villageous  book  as  much  as  pos 
sible.  Let  some  one  make  a  characteristic  selec 
tion  of  mottoes  from  your  shanty  walls,  and 
sprinkle  them  in  an  irregular  manner,  at  all  angles, 
over  the  fly  leaves  and  margins,  as  a  man  stamps 
his  name  in  a  hurry  ;  and  also  canes,  pipes,  and 


172  LETTERS. 

jackknives,  of  all  your  patterns,  about  the  frontis 
piece.  I  can  think  of  plenty  of  devices  for  tail 
pieces.  Indeed,  I  should  like  to  see  a  hair-pillow, 
accurately  drawn,  for  one  ;  a  cat,  with  a  bell  on,  for 
another ;  the  old  horse,  with  his  age  printed  in  the 
hollow  of  his  back ;  half  a  cocoa-nut  shell  by  a 
spring ;  a  sheet  of  blotted  paper ;  a  settle  occupied 
by  a  settler  at  full  length,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  Call  all 
the  arts  to  your  aid. 

Don't  wait  for  the  Indian  summer,  but  bring  it 

with  you. 

Yours  truly, 

H.  D.  T. 

P.  S.  —  Let  me  ask  a  favor.    I  am  trying  to  write 
something  about  the  autumnal  tints,  and  I  wish  to 

know  how  much  our  trees  differ  from  Eno-lish  and 

& 

European  ones  in  this  respect.  Will  you  observe, 
or  learn  for  me,  what  English  or  European  trees, 
if  any,  still  retain  their  leaves  in  Mr.  Arnold's 
garden  (the  gardener  will  supply  the  true  names)  ; 
and  also  if  the  foliage  of  any  (and  what)  Euro 
pean  or  foreign  trees  there  have  been  brilliant  the 
past  month.  If  you  will  do  this  you  will  greatly 
oblige  me.  I  return  the  newspaper  with  this. 


LETTERS.  173 

TO    ME.  B. 

COXCORD,  January  1,  1859. 

It  may  interest  you  to  hear  that  C has  been 

this  way  again,  via  Montreal  and  Lake  Huron,  go 
ing  to  the  West  Indies,  or  rather  to  Weiss-nicht- 
wo,  whither  he  urges  me  to  accompany  him.  He 
is  rather  more  demonstrative  than  before,  and,  on 
the  whole,  what  would  be  called  "  a  good  fellow," 
—  is  a  man  of  principle,  and  quite  reliable,  but 
very  peculiar.  I  have  been  to  New  Bedford  with 

him,  to  show  him  a  whaling  town  and  R .  I 

was  glad  to  hear  that  you  had  called  on  R . 

How  did  you  like  him  ?  I  suspect  that  you  did 
not  see  one  another  fairly. 

I  have  lately  got  back  to  that  glorious  society, 
called  Solitude,  where  we  meet  our  Friends  con 
tinually,  and  can  imagine  the  outside  world  also  to 
be  peopled.  Yet  some  of  my  acquaintance  would 
fain  hustle  me  into  the  almshouse  for  the  sake  of 
society,  as  if  I  were  pining  for  that  diet,  when  I 
seem  to  myself  a  most  befriended  man,  and  find 
constant  employment.  However,  they  do  not  be 
lieve  a  word  I  say.  They  have  got  a  club,  the 
handle  of  which  is  in  the  Parker  House  at  Boston, 
and  with  this  they  beat  me  from  time  to  time,  ex 
pecting  to  make  me  tender  or  minced  meat  so,  fit 
for  a  club  to  dine  off. 


174  LETTERS. 

"  Hercules  with  his  club 
The  Dragon  did  drub  ; 
But  More  of  More  Hall, 
With  nothing  at  all, 
He  slew  the  Dragon  of  Wantley." 

Ah  !  that  More  of  More  Hall  knew  what  fair  play 

was.  C ,  who  wrote  to  me  about  it  once, 

brandishing  the  club  vigorously,  being  set  on  by 
another,  probably,  says  now,  seriously,  that  he  is 
sorry  to  find  by  my  letters  that  I  am  "  absorbed 
in  politics,"  and  adds,  begging  my  pardon  for  his 
plainness,  "  Beware  of  an  extraneous  life  !  "  and  so 
he  does  his  duty,  and  washes  his  hands  of  me.  I 
tell  him  that  it  is  as  if  he  should  say  to  the  sloth, 
that  fellow  that  creeps  so  slowly  along  a  tree,  and 
cries  ai  from  time  to  time,  "  Beware  of  dancing  !  " 

The  doctors  are  all  agreed  that  I  am  suffering 
for  want  of  society.  Was  never  a  case  like  it  ? 
First,  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  suffering  at  all. 
Secondly,  as  an  Irishman  might  say,  I  had  thought 
it  was  indigestion  of  the  society  I  got. 

As  for  the  Parker  House,  I  went  there  once, 
when  the  Club  was  away,  but  I  found  it  hard  to  see 
through  the  cigar  smoke,  and  men  were  deposited 
about  in  chairs  over  the  marble  floor,  as  thick  as 
legs  of  bacon  in  a  smoke-house.  It  was  all  smoke, 
and  no  salt,  attic  or  other.  The  only  room  in 
Boston  which  I  visit  with  alacrity,  is  the  Gentle 
men's  Room  at  the  Fitchburg  Dep8t,  where  I  wait 
for  the  cars,  sometimes  for,  two  hours,  in  order  to 
get  out  of  town.  It  is  a  paradise  to  the  Parker 


LETTERS.  175 

House,  for  no  smoking  is  allowed,  and  there  is  far 
more  retirement.  A  large  and  respectable  club  of 
us  hire  it  (Town  and  Country  Club),  and  I  am 
pretty  sure  to  find  some  one  there  whose  face  is 
set  the  same  wray  as  my  own. 

My  last  essay,  on  which  I  am  still  engaged,  is 
called  Autumnal  Tints.  I  do  not  know  how  read 
able  (i.  e.  by  me  to  others)  it  will  be. 

I  met  Mr.  J the  other  night  at  Emerson's, 

at  an  Alcottian  conversation,  at  which,  however, 

A did  not  talk  much,  being  disturbed  by 

J "s  opposition.  The  latter  is  a  hearty  man 

enough,  with  whom  you  can  differ  very  satisfac 
torily,  on  account  of  both  his  doctrines  and  his 
good  temper.  He  utters  quasi  philanthropic  dog 
mas  in  a  metaphysic  dress ;  but  they  are  for  all 
practical  purposes  very  crude.  He  charges  society 
with  all  the  crime  committed,  and  praises  the 
criminal  for  committing  it.  But  I  think  that  all 
the  remedies  he  suggests  out  of  his  head,  —  for 
he  goes  no  farther,  hearty  as  he  is,  —  would  leave 
us  about  where  we  are  now.  For,  of  course,  it  is 
not  by  a  gift  of  turkeys  on  Thanksgiving  Day  that 
he  proposes  to  convert  the  criminal,  but  by  a  true 
sympathy  with  each  one,  —  with  him,  among  the 
rest,  who  lyingly  tells  the  world  from  the  gallows 
that  he  has  never  been  treated  kindly  by  a  single 
mortal  since  he  was  born.  But  it  is  not  so  easy  a 
thing  to  sympathize  with  another,  though  you  may 
have  the  best  disposition  to  do  it.  There  is  Dob- 


176  LETTERS. 

son  over  the  hill.  Have  not  you  and  I  and  all 
the  world  been  trying,  ever  since  he  was  born,  to 
sympathize  with  him  ?  (as  doubtless  he  with  us,) 
and  yet  we  have  got  no  further  than  to  send  him 
to  the  House  of  Correction  once  at  least ;  and  he, 
on  the  other  hand,  as  I  hear,  has  sent  us  to  an 
other  place  several  times.  This  is  the  real  state 
of  things,  as  I  understand  it,  as  least  so  far  as 
J 's  remedies  go.  We  are  now,  alas!  exer 
cising  what  chanty  we  actually  have,  and  new 
laws  would  not  give  us  any  more.  But,  per 
chance,  we  might  make  some  improvements  in  the 
House  of  Correction.  You  and  I  are  Dobson ; 
what  will  J do  for  us  ? 

Have  you  found  at  last  in  your  wanderings  a 
place  where  the  solitude  is  sweet  ? 

What  mountain  are  you  camping  on  now-a- 
days  ?  Though  I  had  a  good  time  at  the  moun 
tains,  I  confess  that  the  journey  did  not  bear  any 
fruit  that  I  know  of.  I  did  not  expect  it  would. 
The  mode  of  it  was  not  simple  and  adventurous 
enough.  You  must  first  have  made  an  infinite  de 
mand,  and  not  unreasonably,  but  after  a  corre 
sponding  outlay,  have  an  all-absorbing  purpose, 
and  at  the  same  time  that  your  feet  bear  you 
hither  and  thither,  travel  much  more  in  imagina 
tion. 

To  let  the  mountains  slide,  —  live  at  home  like 
a  traveller.  It  should  not  be  in  vain  that  these 
things  are  shown  us  from  day  to  day.  Is  not 


LETTERS.  177 

each  withered  leaf  that  I  see  in  my  walks  some 
thing  which  I  have  travelled  to  find?  —  travelled, 
who  can  tell  how  far  ?  What  a  fool  he  must  be 
who  thinks  that  his  El  Dorado  is  anywhere  but 
where  he  lives  ! 

We  are  always,  methinks,  in  some  kind  of  ra 
vine,  though  our  bodies  may  walk  the  smooth 
streets  of  Worcester.  Our  souls  (I  use  this  word 
for  want  of  a  better)  are  ever  perched  on  its  rocky 
sides,  overlooking  that  lowland.  (What  a  more 
than  Tuckerman's  Ravine  is  the  body  itself,  in 
which  the  "  soul"  is  encamped,  when  you  come  to 
look  into  it !  However,  eagles  always  have  chosen 
such  places  for  their  eyries.) 

Thus  is  it  ever  with  your  fair  cities  of  the 
plain.  Their  streets  may  be  paved  with  silver 
and  gold,  and  six  carriages  roll  abreast  in  them, 
but  the  real  homes  of  the  citizens  are  in  the  Tuck 
erman's  Ravines  which  ray  out  from  that  centre 
into  the  mountains  round  about,  one  for  each  man, 
woman,  and  child.  The  masters  of  life  have  so 
ordered  it.  That  is  their  beau-ideal  of  a  country 
seat.  There  is  no  danger  of  being  "tuckered" 
out  before  you  get  to  it. 

So  we  live  in  Worcester  and  in  Concord,  each 
man  taking  his  exercise  regu]arly  in  his  ravine, 
like  a  lion  in  his  cage,  and  sometimes  spraining  his 
ancle  there.  We  have  very  few  clear  days,  and  a 
great  many  small  plagues  which  keep  us  busy. 
Sometimes,  I  suppose,  you  hear  a  neighbor  halloo 


178  LETTERS. 

(B ,  may  be)  and  think  it  is  a  bear.  Never 
theless,  on  the  whole,  we  think  it  very  grand  and 
exhilarating,  this  ravine  life.  It  is  a  capital  ad 
vantage  withal,  living  so  high,  the  excellent  drain 
age  of  that  city  of  God.  Routine  is  but  a  shal 
low  and  insignificant  sort  of  ravine,  such  as  the 
ruts  are,  the  conduits  of  puddles.  But  these  ra 
vines  are  the  source  of  mighty  streams,  —  precipi 
tous,  icy,  savage,  as  they  are,  haunted  by  bears 
and  loup-cerviers,  there  are  born  not  only  Sacos 
and  Amazons,  but  prophets  who  will  redeem  the 
world.  The  at  last  smooth  and  fertilizing  water 
at  which  nations  drink  and  navies  supply  them 
selves,  begins  with  melted  glaciers,  and  burst 
thunder-spouts.  Let  us  pray,  that,  if  we  are  not 
flowing  through  some  Mississippi  valley  which  we 
fertilize,  —  and  it  is  not  likely  we  are,  —  we  may 
know  ourselves  shut  in  between  grim  and  mighty 
mountain  walls  amid  the  clouds,  falling  a  thousand 
feet  in  a  mile,  through  dwarfed  fir  and  spruce, 
over  the  rocky  insteps  of  slides,  being  exercised  in 
our  minds,  and  so  developed. 

H.  D.  T. 


LETTERS.  179 

TO    MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  September  26,  1859. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  in  a  fit  mood  to  write 
to  you,  for  I  feel  and  think  rather  too  much  like  a 
business  man,  having  some  very  irksome  affairs  to 
attend  to  these  months  and  years  on  account  of 
my  family.  This  is  the  way  I  am  serving  King 
Admetus,  confound  him  !  If  it  were  not  for  my 
relations,  I  would  let  the  wolves  prey  on  his  flocks 
to  their  bellies'  content.  Such  fellows  you  have  to 
deal  with  !  herdsmen  of  some  other  king,  or  of  the 
same,  who  tell  no  tale,  but  in  the  sense  of  count 
ing  their  flocks,  and  then  lie  drunk  under  a  hedge. 
How  is  your  grist  ground  ?  Not  by  some  mur 
muring  stream,  while  you  lie  dreaming  on  the 
bank ;  but,  it  seems,  you  must  take  hold  with 
your  hands,  and  shove  the  wheel  round.  You 
can't  depend  on  streams,  poor  feeble  things  !  You 
can't  depend  on  worlds,  left  to  themselves ;  but 
you  've  got  to  oil  them  and  goad  them  along.  In 
short,  you  've  got  to  carry  on  two  farms  at  once, 
—  the  farm  on  the  earth  and  the  farm  in  your 
mind.  Those  Crimean  and  Italian  battles  were 
mere  boys'  play,  —  they  are  the  scrapes  into 
which  truants  get.  But  what  a  battle  a  man 
must  fight  everywhere  to  maintain  his  standing 
army  of  thoughts,  and  march  with  them  in  orderly 
array  through  the  always  hostile  country !  How 


180  LETTERS. 

many  enemies  there  are  to  sane  thinking  !  Every 
soldier  has  succumbed  to  them  before  he  enlists  for 
those  other  battles.  Men  may  sit  in  chambers, 
seemingly  safe  and  sound,  and  yet  despair,  and 
turn  out  at  last  only  hollowness  and  dust  within, 
like  a  Dead  Sea  apple.  A  standing  army  of  nu 
merous,  brave,  and  well-disciplined  thoughts,  and 
you  at  the  head  of  them,  marching  straight  to 
your  goal !  How  to  bring  this  about  is  the  prob 
lem,  and  Scott's  Tactics  will  not  help  you  to  it. 
Think  of  a  poor  fellow  begirt  only  with  a  sword- 
belt,  and  no  such  staff  of  athletic  thought !  his 
brains  rattling  as  he  walks  and  talks  !  These  are 
your  pretorian  guard.  It  is  easy  enough  to  main 
tain  a  family,  or  a  state,  but  it  is  hard  to  maintain 
these  children  of  your  brain  (or  say,  rather,  these 
guests  that  trust  to  enjoy  your  hospitality),  they 
make  such  great  demands ;  and  yet,  he  who  does 
only  the  former,  and  loses  the  power  to  think 
originally,  or  as  only  he  ever  can,  fails  misera 
bly.  Keep  up  the  fires  of  thought,  and  all  will  go 
well. 

Zouaves  ?  —  pish  !  How  you  can  overrun  a 
country,  climb  any  rampart,  and  carry  any  for 
tress,  with  an  army  of  alert  thoughts  I. —  thoughts 
that  send  their  bullets  home  to  heaven's  door,  — 
with  which  you  can  take  the  whole  world,  without 
paying  for  it,  or  robbing  anybody.  See,  the  con 
quering  hero  comes  !  You  fail  in  your  thoughts, 
or  you  prevail  in  your  thoughts  only.  Provided 


LETTERS.  181 

you  think  well,  the  heavens  falling,  or  the  earth 
gaping,  will  be  music  for  you  to  march  by.  No 
foe  can  ever  see  you,  or  you  him ;  you  cannot  so 
much  as  think  of  him.  Swords  have  no  edges, 
bullets  no  penetration,  for  such  a  contest.  In  your 
mind  must  be  a  liquor  which  will  dissolve  the 
wrorld  whenever  it  is  dropt  in  it.  There  is  no 
universal  solvent  but  this,  and  all  things  together 
cannot  saturate  it.  It  will  hold  the  universe  in 
solution,  and  yet  be  as  translucent  as  ever.  The 
vast  machine  may  indeed  roll  over  our  toes,  and  we 
not  know  it,  but  it  would  rebound  and  be  staved 
to  pieces  like  an  empty  barrel,  if  it  should  strike 
fair  and  square  on  the  smallest  and  least  angular 
of  a  man's  thoughts. 

You  seem  not  to  have  taken  Cape  Cod  the  right 
way.  I  think  that  you  should  have  persevered  in 
walking  on  the  beach  and  on  the  bank,  even  to 
the  land's  end,  however  soft,  and  so,  by  long 
knocking  at  Ocean's  gate,  have  gained  admittance 
at  last,  —  better,  if  separately,  and  in  a  storm,  not 
knowing  where  you  would  sleep  by  night,  or  eat 
by  day.  Then  you  should  have  given  a  day  to 
the  sand  behind  Provincetown,  and  ascended  the 
hills  there,  and  been  blown  on  considerably.  I 
hope  that  you  like  to  remember  the  journey  better 
than  you  did  to  make  it. 

I  have  been  confined  at  home  all  this  year,  but 
I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  grown  any  rustier 
than  was  to  be  expected.  One  while  I  explored 


182  LETTERS. 

the   bottom    of  the    river    pretty   extensively.     I 
have  engaged  to  read  a  lecture  to  Parker's  Society 
on  the  9th  of  October  next. 
I  am  off  —  a  barberrying. 

II.  D.  T. 


TO  MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  May  20,  1860. 
MR.  B :  — 

I  must  endeavor  to  pay  some  of  my  debts  to 
you. 

To  begin  where  we  left  off,  then. 

The  presumption  is  that  we  are  always  the 
same ;  our  opportunities,  and  Nature  herself,  fluc 
tuating.  Look  at  mankind.  No  great  difference 
between  two,  apparently  ;  perhaps  the  same  height, 
and  breadth,  and  weight ;  and  yet,  to  the  man  who 
sits  most  east,  this  life  is  a  weariness,  routine,  dust 
and  ashes,  and  he  drowns  his  imaginary  cards  ( ! ) 
(a  sort  of  friction  among  his  vital  organs)  in  a 
bowl.  But  to  the  man  who  sits  most  west,  his  con 
temporary  (  !),  it  is  a  field  for  all  noble  endeavors, 
an  elysium,  the  dwelling-place  of  heroes  and  demi 
gods.  The  former  complains  that  he  has  a  thou 
sand  affairs  to  attend  to ;  but  he  does  not  realize 
that  his  affairs  (though  they  may  be  a  thousand) 
and  he  are  one. 

Men  and  boys  are  learning  all  kinds  of  trades 


LETTERS.  183 

but  how  to  make  men  of  themselves.  They  learn 
to  make  houses ;  but  they  are  not  so  well  housed, 
they  are  not  so  contented  in  their  houses,  as  the 
woodchucks  in  their  holes.  What  is  the  use  of  a 
house  if  you  have  n't  got  a  tolerable  planet  to  put 
it  on  ?  —  if  you  cannot  tolerate  the  planet  it  is  on  ? 
Grade  the  ground  first.  If  a  man  believes  and 
expects  great  things  of  himself,  it  makes  no  odds 
where  you  put  him,  or  what  you  show  him  (of 
course  you  cannot  put  him  anywhere,  nor  show 
him  anything),  he  will  be  surrounded  by  grand 
eur.  He  is  in  the  condition  of  a  healthy  and 
hungry  man,  who  says  to  himself,  —  How  sweet 
this  crust  is  !  If  he  despairs  of  himself,  then 
Tophet  is  his  dwelling-place,  and  he  is  in  the  con 
dition  of  a  sick  man  who  is  disgusted  with  the 
fruits  of  finest  flavor. 

Whether  he  sleeps  or  wakes,  —  whether  he  runs 
or  walks,  —  whether  he  uses  a  microscope  or  a 
telescope,  or  his  naked  eye,  —  a  man  never  dis 
covers  anything,  never  overtakes  anything,  or 
leaves  anything  behind,  but  himself.  Whatever 
he  says  or  does,  he  merely  reports  himself.  If  he 
is  in  love,  he  loves ;  if  he  is  in  heaven,  he  enjoys  ; 
if  he  is  in  hell,  he  suffers.  It  is  his  condition  that 
determines  his  locality. 

The  principal,  the  only  thing  a  man  makes,  is 
his  condition  or  fate.  Though  commonly  he  does 
not  know  it,  nor  put  up  a  sign  to  this  effect,  "  My 
own  destiny  made  and  mended  here."  [Not 


184  LETTERS. 

yours.~\  He  is  a  master-workman  in  the  business. 
He  works  twenty-four  hours  a  day  at  it,  and  gets 
it  done.  Whatever  else  he  neglects  or  botches,  no 
man  was  ever  known  to  neglect  this  work.  A 
great  many  pretend  to  make  shoes  chiefly,  and 
would  scout  the  idea  that  they  make  the  hard 
times  which  they  experience. 

Each  reaching  and  aspiration  is  an  instinct  with 
which  all  nature  consists  and  co-operates,  and 
therefore  it  is  not  in  vain.  But  alas  !  each  relax 
ing  and  desperation  is  an  instinct  too.  To  be 
active,  well,  happy,  implies  rare  courage.  To  be 
ready  to  fight  in  a  duel  or  a  battle,  implies  des 
peration,  or  that  you  hold  your  life  cheap. 

If  you  take  this  life  to  be  simply  what  old  re 
ligious  folks  pretend,  (I  mean  the  effete,  gone  to 
seed  in  a  drought,  mere  human  galls  stung  by  the 
devil  once,)  then  all  your  joy  and  serenity  is  re 
duced  to  grinning  and  bearing  it.  The  fact  is, 
you  have  got  to  take  the  world  on  your  shoulders 
like  Atlas,  and  put  along  with  it.  You  will  do 
this  for  an  idea's  sake,  and  your  success  will  be  in 
proportion  to  your  devotion  to  ideas.  It  may 
make  your  back  ache  occasionally,  but  you  will 
have  the  satisfaction  of  hanging  it  or  twirling  it  to 
suit  yourself.  Cowards  suffer,  heroes  enjoy.  After 
a  long  day's  walk  with  it,  pitch  it  into  a  hollow 
place,  sit  down  and  eat  your  luncheon.  Unex 
pectedly,  by  some  immortal  thoughts,  you  will  be 
compensated.  The  bank  whereon  you  sit  will  be 


LETTERS.  185 

a  fragrant  and  flowery  one,  and  your  world  in  the 
hollow  a  sleek  and  light  gazelle. 

Where  is  the  "  unexplored  land "  but  in  our 
own  untried  enterprises  ?  To  an  adventurous 
spirit  any  place  —  London,  New  York,  Worces 
ter,  or  his  own  yard  —  is  "  unexplored  land,"  to 
seek  which  Fremont  and  Kane  travel  so  far.  To 
a  sluggish  and  defeated  spirit  even  the  Great 
Basin  and  the  Polaris  are  trivial  places.  If  they 
can  get  there  (and,  indeed,  they  are  there  now), 
they  will  want  to  sleep,  and  give  it  up,  just  as  they 
always  do.  These  are  the  regions  of  the  Known 
and  of  the  Unknown.  What  is  the  use  of  going 
right  over  the  old  track  again  ?  There  is  an 
adder  in  the  path  which  your  own  feet  have 
worn.  You  must  make  tracks  into  the  Unknown. 
That  is  what  you  have  your  board  and  clothes  for. 
Why  do  you  ever  mend  your  clothes,  unless  that, 
wearing  them,  you  may  mend  your  ways. 

Let  us  sing. 

H.  D.  T. 


186  LETTERS. 


TO   MR.   D.    R. 

CONCORD,  November  4,  1860. 

FRIEND  R :  — 

I  thank  you  for  the  verses.  They  are  quite 
too  good  to  apply  to  me.  However,  I  know  what 
a  poet's  license  is,  and  will  not  get  in  the  way. 

But  what  do  you  mean  by  that  prose  ?  Why 
will  you  waste  so  many  regards  on  me,  and  not 
know  what  to  think  of  my  silence  ?  Infer  from 
it  what  you  might  from  the  silence  of  a  dense  pine 
wood.  It  is  its  natural  condition,  except  when 
the  winds  blow,  and  the  jays  scream,  and  the 
chickaree  winds  up  his  clock.  My  silence  is  just 
as  inhuman  as  that,  and  no  more. 

You  know  that  I  never  promised  to  correspond 
with  you,  and  so,  when  I  do,  I  do  more  than  I 
promised. 

Such  are  my  pursuits  and  habits,  that  I  rarely 
go  abroad ;  and  it  is  quite  a  habit  with  me  to  de 
cline  invitations  to  do  so.  Not  that  I  could  not 
enjoy  such  visits,  if  I  were  not  otherwise  occupied. 
I  have  enjoyed  very  much  my  visits  to  you,  and 
my  rides  in  your  neighborhood,  and  am  sorry  that 
I  cannot  enjoy  such  things  oftener ;  but  life  is 
short,  and  there  are  other  things  also  to  be  done. 
I  admit  that  you  are  more  social  than  I  am,  and 
far  more  attentive  to  "  the  common  courtesies  of 
life ;  but  this  is  partly  for  the  reason  that  you  have 
fewer  or  less  exacting  private  pursuits. 


LETTERS.  187 

Not  to  have  written  a  note  for  a  year,  is  with 
me  a  very  venial  offence.  I  think  that  I  do  not 
correspond  with  any  one  so  often  as  once  in  six 
months. 

I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  your  invitation  re 
ferred  to ;  hut  I  suppose  that  I  had  no  new  nor 
particular  reason  for  declining,  and  so  made  no 
new  statement.  I  have  felt  that  you  would  be 
glad  to  see  me  almost  whenever  I  got  ready  to 
come ;  but  I  only  offer  myself  as  a  rare  visitor, 
and  a  still  rarer  correspondent. 

I  am  very  busy,  after  my  fashion,  little  as  there 
is  to  show  for  it,  and  feel  as  if  I  could  not  spend 
many  days  nor  dollars  in  travelling ;  for  the  short 
est  visit  must  have  a  fair  margin  to  it,  and  the 
days  thus  affect  the  wreeks,  you  know.  Neverthe 
less,  we  cannot  forego  these  luxuries  altogether. 

You  must  not  regard  me  as  a  regular  diet,  but 
at  most  only  as  acorns,  which,  too,  are  not  to  be 
despised,  —  which,  at  least,  we  love  to  think  are 
edible  in  a  bracing  walk.  We  have  got  along 
pretty  well  together  in  several  directions,  though 
we  are  such  strangers  in  others. 

I  hardly  know  what  to  say  in  answer  to  your 
letter. 

Some  are  accustomed  to  write  many  letters, 
others  very  few.  I  am  one  of  the  last.  At  any 
rate,  we  are  pretty  sure,  if  we  write  at  all,  to  send 
those  thoughts  which  we  cherish,  to  that  one,  who, 
we  believe,  will  most  religiously  attend  to  them. 


188  LETTERS. 

This  life  is  not  for  complaint,  but  for  satisfaction. 
I  do  not  feel  addressed  by  this  letter  of  yours.  It 
suggests  only  misunderstanding.  Intercourse  may 
be  good ;  but  of  what  use  are  complaints  and  apol 
ogies  ?  Any  complaint  I  have  to  make  is  too 
serious  to  be  uttered,  for  the  evil  cannot  be 
mended. 

Turn  over  a  new  leaf. 

My  out-door  harvest  this  fall  has  been  one  Can 
ada  lynx,  a  fierce-looking  fellow,  which,  it  seems, 
we  have  hereabouts ;  eleven  barrels  of  apples  from 
trees  of  my  own  planting  ;  and  a  large  crop  of 
\vhite-oak  acorns,  which  I  did  not  raise. 

Please  remember  me  to  your  family.     I  have  a 
very  pleasant  recollection  of  your  fireside,  and  I 
trust  that  I  shall  revisit  it ;  —  also  of  your  shanty 
and  the  surrounding  regions. 
Yours  truly, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  November  4,  I860. 


MR.  B :  — 

I  am  glad  to  hear  any  particulars  of  your  excur 
sion.  As  for  myself,  I  looked  out  for  you  some 
what  on  that  Monday,  when,  it  appears,  you 


LETTERS.  189 

passed  Monadnock ;  turned  my  glass  upon  several 
parties  that  were  ascending  the  mountain  half  a 
mile  on  one  side  of  us.  In  short,  I  came  as  near 
to  seeing  you  as  you  to  seeing  me.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  we  should  have  had  a  good  time  if  you 
had  come,  for  I  had,  all  ready,  two  good  spruce 
houses,  in  which  you  could  stand  up,  complete  in 
all  respects,  half  a  mile  apart,  and  you  and  B. 
could  have  lodged  by  yourselves  in  one,  if  not 
with  us. 

We  made  an  excellent  beginning  of  our  moun 
tain  life.  You  may  remember  that  the  Saturday 
previous  was  a  stormy  day.  Well,  we  went  up 
in  the  rain,  —  wet  through,  —  and  found  ourselves 
in  a  cloud  there  at  mid-afternoon,  in  no  situation 
to  look  about  for  the  best  place  for  a  camp.  So 
I  proceeded  at  once,  through  the  cloud,  to  that 
memorable  stone,  "chunk  yard,"  in  which  we 
made  our  humble  camp  once,  and  there,  after 
putting  our  packs  under  a  rock,  having  a  good 
hatchet,  I  proceeded  to  build  a  substantial  house, 
which  C.  declared  the  handsomest  he  ever  saw. 
(He  never  camped  out  before,  and  was,  no  doubt, 
prejudiced  in  its  favor.)  This  was  done  about 
dark,  and  by  that  time  we  were  nearly  as  wet  as 
if  we  had  stood  in  a  hogshead  of  water.  We  then 
built  a  fire  before  the  door,  directly  on  the  site  of 
our  little  camp  of  two  years  ago,  and  it  took  a  long 
time  to  burn  through  its  remains  to  the  earth  be 
neath.  Standing  before  this,  and  turning  round 


190  LETTERS. 

slowly,  like  meat  that  is  roasting,  we  were  as  dry, 
if  not  drier,  than  ever,  after  a  few  hours,  and  so, 
at  last,  we  "  turned  in." 

This  was  a  great  deal  better  than  going  up  there 
in  fair  weather,  and  having  no  adventure  (not 
knowing  how  to  appreciate  either  fair  weather  or 
foul)  but  dull,  commonplace  sleep  in  a  useless 
house,  and  before  a  comparatively  useless  fire,  — 
such  as  we  get  every  night.  Of  course,  we 
thanked  our  stars,  when  we  saw  them,  which  was 
about  midnight,  that  they  had  seemingly  with 
drawn  for  a  season.  We  had  the  mountain  all  to 
ourselves  that  afternoon  and  night.  There  was 
nobody  going  up  that  day  to  engrave  his  name  on 
the  summit,  nor  to  gather  blueberries.  The 
genius  of  the  mountains  saw  us  starting  from 
Concord,  and  it  said,  There  come  two  of  our 
folks.  Let  us  get  ready  for  them.  Get  up  a 
serious  storm,  that  will  send  a-paeking  these  holi 
day  guests.  (They  may  have  their  say  another 
time.)  Let  us  receive  them  with  true  mountain 
hospitality,  —  kill  the  fatted  cloud.  Let  them 
know  the  value  of  a  spruce  roof,  and  of  a  fire  of 
dead  spruce  stumps.  Every  bush  dripped  tears 
of  joy  at  our  advent.  Fire  did  its  best,  and  re 
ceived  our  thanks.  What  could  fire  have  done 
in  fair  weather  ?  Spruce  roof  got  its  share  of  our 
blessings.  And  then,  such  a  view  of  the  wet 
rocks,  with  the  wet  lichens  on  them,  as  we  had  the 
next  morning,  but  did  not  get  again  ! 


LETTERS.  191 

We  and  the  mountain  had  a  sound  season,  as 
the  saying  is.  How  glad  we  were  to  be  wet,  in 
order  that  we  might  be  dried  !  How  glad  we 
were  of  the  storm  which  made  our  house  seem 
like  a  new  home  to  us !  This  day's  experience 
was  indeed  lucky,  for  we  did  not  have  a  thunder- 
shower  during  all  our  stay.  Perhaps  our  host 
reserved  this  attention  in  order  to  tempt  us  to 
come  again. 

Our  next  house  was  more  substantial  still. 
One  side  was  rock,  good  for  durability ;  the  floor 
the  same ;  and  the  roof  which  I  made  would  have 
upheld  a  horse.  I  stood  on  it  to  do  the  shingling. 

I  noticed,  when  I  was  at  the  White  Mountains 
last,  several  nuisances  which  render  travelling 
thereabouts  unpleasant.  The  chief  of  these  was 
the  mountain  houses.  I  might  have  supposed  that 
the  main  attraction  of  that  region,  even  to  citizens, 
lay  in  its  wildness  and  unlikeness  to  the  city,  and 
yet  they  make  it  as  much  like  the  city  as  they  can 
afford  to.  I  heard  that  the  Crawford  House  was 
lighted  with  gas,  and  had  a  large  saloon,  with  its 
band  of  music,  for  dancing.  But  give  me  a  spruce 
house  made  in  the  rain. 

An  old  Concord  farmer  tells  me  that  he  ascend 
ed  Monadnock  once,  and  danced  on  the  top.  How 
did  that  happen  ?  Why,  he  being  up  there,  a 
party  of  young  men  and  women  came  up,  bring 
ing  boards  and  a  fiddler ;  and,  having  laid  down 
the  boards,  they  made  a  level  floor,  on  which  they 


192  LETTERS. 

danced  to  the  music  of  the  fiddle.  I  suppose  the 
tune  was  "  Excelsior."  This  reminds  me  of  the 
fellow  who  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  very  high  spire, 
stood  upright  on  the  ball,  and  hurrahed  for  — 
what?  Why,  for  Harrison  and  Tyler.  That's 
the  kind  of  sound  which  most  ambitious  people 
emit  when  they  culminate.  They  are  wont  to  be 
singularly  frivolous  in  the  thin  atmosphere  ;  they 
can't  contain  themselves,  though  our  comfort  and 
their  safety  require  it;  it  takes  the  pressure  of 
many  atmospheres  to  do  this;  and  hence  they 
helplessly  evaporate  there.  It  would  seem,  that, 
as  they  ascend,  they  breathe  shorter  and  shorter, 
and,  at  each  expiration,  some  of  their  wits  leave 
them,  till,  when  they  reach  the  pinnacle,  they  are 
so  light-headed  as  to  be  fit  only  to  show  how  the 

wind  sits.     I  suspect  that  E 's  criticism  called 

"  Monadnock  "  was  inspired,  not  by  remembering 
the  inhabitants  of  New  Hampshire  as  they  are  in 
the  valleys,  so  much  as  by  meeting  some  of  them 
on  the  mountain-top. 

After  several  nights'  experience,  C.  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  "  lying  out-doors,"  and  in 
quired  what  was  the  largest  beast  that  might  nib 
ble  his  legs  there.  I  fear  that  he  did  not  improve 
all  the  night,  as  he  might  have  done,  to  sleep.  I 
had  asked  him  to  go  and  spend  a  week  there. 
We  spent  five  nights,  being  gone  six  days,  for  C. 
suggested  that  six  working  days  made  a  week,  and 
I  saw  that  he  was  ready  to  de-camp.  However, 
he  found  his  account  in  it  as  well  as  I. 


LETTERS.  193 

We  were  seen  to  go  up  in  the  rain,  grim  and 
silent,  like  two  genii  of  the  storm,  by  Fassett's 
men  or  boys  ;  but  we  were  never  identified  after 
ward,  though  we  were  the  subject  of  some  con 
versation  which  we  overheard.  Five  hundred 
persons  at  least  came  on  to  the  mountain  while  we 
were  there,  but  not  one  found  our  camp.  We 
saw  one  party  of  three  ladies  and  two  gentlemen 
spread  their  blankets  and  spend  the  night  on  the 
top,  and  heard  them  converse  ;  but  they  did  not 
know  that  they  had  neighbors,  who  were  compara 
tively  old  settlers.  We  spared  them  the  chagrin 
which  that  knowledge  would  have  caused  them, 
and  let  them  print  their  story  in  a  newspaper 
accordingly. 

Yes,  to  meet  men  on  an  honest  and  simple  foot 
ing,  meet  with  rebuffs,  suffer  from  sore  feet,  as 
you  did,  —  ay,  and  from  a  sore  heart,  as  perhaps 
you  also  did,  —  all  that  is  excellent.  What  a  pity 
that  that  young  prince  could  not  enjoy  a  little  of 
the  legitimate  experience  of  travelling,  be  dealt 
with  simply  and  truly,  though  rudely.  He  might 
have  been  invited  to  some  hospitable  house  in  the 
country,  had  his  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  set  be 
fore  him,  with  a  clean  pinafore ;  been  told  that 
there  were  the  punt  and  the  fishing-rod,  and  he 
could  amuse  himself  as  he  chose;  might  have 
swung  a  few  birches,  dug  out  a  woodchuck,  and 
had  a  regular  good  time,  and  finally  been  sent  to 
bed  with  the  boys,  —  and  so  never  have  been  in- 


194  LETTERS. 

troduced  to  Mr.  Everett  at  all.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  this  would  have  been  a  far  more  memorable 
and  valuable  experience  than  he  got. 

The  snow-clad  summit  of  Mount  Washington 
must  have  been  a  very  interesting  sight  from  Wa- 
chusett.  How  wholesome  winter  is,  seen  far  or 
near;  how  good,  above  all  mere  sentimental, 
warm  -  blooded,  short  -  lived,  soft  -  hearted,  moral 
goodness,  commonly  so-called.  Give  me  the  good 
ness  wyhich  has  forgotten  its  own  deeds,  —  which 
God  has  seen  to  be  good,  and  let  be.  None  of 
your  just  made  perfect,  —  pickled  eels  !  All  that 
will  save  them  will  be  their  picturesqueness,  as 
with  blasted  trees.  Whatever  is,  and  is  not 
ashamed  to  be,  is  good.  I  value  no  moral  good 
ness  or  greatness  unless  it  is  good  or  great,  even 
as  that  snowy  peak  is.  Pray,  how  could  thirty 
feet  of  bowels  improve  it  ?  Nature  is  goodness 
crystallized.  You  looked  into  the  land  of  promise. 
Whatever  beauty  we  behold,  the  more  it  is  dis 
tant,  serene,  and  cold,  the  purer  and  more  durable 
it  is.  It  is  better  to  warm  ourselves  with  ice  than 
with  fire. 

Tell  B that  he  sent  me  more  than  the  price 

of  the  book,  viz.,  a  word  from  himself,  for  which 
I  am  greatly  his  debtor. 

H.  D.  T. 


LETTERS.  195 

TO  MR.  P. 

CONCORD,  April  10, 1861. 

FRIEND  P :  — 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  not  a  copy  of 
"  Walden  "  which  I  can  spare  ;  and  know  of  none, 
unless  possibly  Ticknor  and  Fields  may  have  one. 
I  send,  nevertheless,  a  copy  of  "  The  Week," 
the  price  of  which  is  one  dollar  and  twenty-five 
cents,  which  you  can  pay  at  your  convenience. 

As  for  your  friend,  my  prospective  reader,  I 
hope  he  ignores  Fort  Sumter,  and  "  Old  Abe," 
and  all  that;  for  that  is  just  the  most  fatal,  and, 
indeed,  the  only  fatal  weapon  you  can  direct 
against  evil,  ever :  for,  as  long  as  you  know  of  it, 
you  are  particeps  criminis.  What  business  have 
you,  if  you  are  "  an  angel  of  light,"  to  be  ponder 
ing  over  the  deeds  of  darkness,  reading  the  New 
York  Herald  and  the  like  ? 

I  do  not  so  much  regret  the  present  condition 
of  things  in  this  country  (provided  I  regret  it  at 
all),  as  I  do  that  I  ever  heard  of  it.  I  know  one 
or  two,  who  have  this  year,  for  the  first  time,  read 
a  President's  Message ;  but  they  do  not  see  that 
this  implies  a  fall  in  themselves,  rather  than  a  rise 
in  the  President.  Blessed  were  the  days  before  you 
read  a  President's  Message.  Blessed  are  the  young, 
for  they  do  not  read  the  President's  Message. 
Blessed  are  they  who  never  read  a  newspaper,  for 
they  shall  see  Nature,  and,  through  her,  God. 


196  LETTERS. 

But,  alas !  I  have  heard  of  Sumter  and  Pick- 
ens,  and  even  of  Buchanan  (though  I  did  not  read 
his  Message). 

I  also  read  the  New  York  Tribune  ;  but  then,  I 
am  reading  Herodotus  and  Strabo,  and  Blodget's 
Climatology,  and  "  Six  Years  in  the  Desert  of 
North  America,"  as  hard  as  I  can,  to  counterbal 
ance  it. 

By  the  way,  Alcott  is  at  present  our  most  pop 
ular  and  successful  man,  and  has  just  published 
a  volume  in  size,  in  the  shape  of  the  Annual 
School  Report,  which  I  presume  he  has  sent  to 
you. 

Yours,  for  remembering  all  good  things, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO   MR.  B. 

CONCORD,  May  3,  1861. 

MR.  B :  — 

I  am  still  as  much  an  invalid  as  when  you  and 

B were  here,  if  not  more  of  one,  and  at  this 

rate  there  is  danger  that  the  cold  weather  may 
come  again,  before  I  get  over  my  bronchitis.  The 
doctor  accordingly  tells  me  that  I  must  "  clear 
out "  to  the  West  Indies,  or  elsewhere,  —  he  does 
not  seem  to  care  much  where.  But  I  decide 
against  the  West  Indies,  on  account  of  their  muggy 


LETTERS.  197 

heat  in  the  summer,  and  the  South  of  Europe,  on 
account  of  the  expense  of  time  and  money,  and 
have  at  last  concluded  that  it  will  be  most  ex 
pedient  for  me  to  try  the  air  of  Minnesota,  say 
somewhere  about  St.  Paul's.  I  am  only  wait 
ing  to  be  well  enough  to  start.  Hope  to  get  off 
within  a  week  or  ten  days. 

The  inland  air  may  help  me  at  once,  or  it  may 
not.  At  any  rate,  I  am  so  much  of  an  invalid, 
that  I  shall  have  to  study  my  comfort  in  travelling 
to  a  remarkable  degree,  —  stopping  to  rest,  &c., 
&c.,  if  need  be.  I  think  to  get  a  through  ticket 
to  Chicago,  with  liberty  to  stop  frequently  on  the 
way,  making  my  first  stop  of  consequence  at  Ni 
agara  Falls,  several  days  or  a  week,  at  a  private 
boarding-house ;  then  a  night  or  day  at  Detroit ; 
and  as  much  at  Chicago  as  my  health  may  re 
quire. 

At  Chicago  I  can  decide  at  what  point  (Fulton, 
Dunleith,  or  another)  to  strike  the  Mississippi,  and 
take  a  boat  to  St.  Paul's. 

I  trust  to  find  a  private  boarding-house  in  one 
or  various  agreeable  places  in  that  region,  and 
spend  my  time  there. 

I  expect,  and  shall  be  prepared  to  be  gone 
three  months ;  and  I  would  like  to  return  by  a 
different  route,  —  perhaps  Mackinaw  and  Mon 
treal. 

I  have  thought  of  finding  a  companion,  of 
course,  yet  not  seriously,  because  I  had  no  right 


198  LETTERS. 

to  offer  myself  as  a  companion  to  anybody,  having 
such  a  peculiarly  private  and  all-absorbing  but 
miserable  business  as  my  health,  and  not  altogether 
his,  to  attend  to,  causing  me  to  stop  here  and  go 
there,  &c.,  &c.,  unaccountably. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  just  now  decided  to  let 
you  know  of  my  intention,  thinking  it  barely  pos 
sible  that  you  might  like  to  make  a  part  or  the 
whole  of  this  journey  at  the  same  time,  and  that 
perhaps  your  own  health  may  be  such  as  to  be 
benefited  by  it. 

Pray  let  me  know  if  such  a  statement  offers  any 
temptations  to  you.  I  write  in  great  haste  for  the 
mail,  and  must  omit  all  the  moral. 

H.   D.  THOREAU. 


TO  MR.  S. 

REDWING,  Minnesota,  June  26,  1861. 

MR.  S :  — 

I  was  very  glad  to  find  awaiting  me,  on  my  ar 
rival  here  on  Sunday  afternoon,  a  letter  from  you. 
I  have  performed  this  journey  in  a  very  dead  and 
alive  manner,  but  nothing  has  come  so  near  wak 
ing  me  up  as  the  receipt  of  letters  from  Concord. 
I  read  yours,  and  one  from  my  sister  (and  Horace 
M his  four),  near  the  top  of  a  remarkable, 


LETTERS.  199 

isolated  bluff  here,  called  Barn  Bluff,  or  the 
Grange,  or  Redwing  Bluff,  some  four  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  high,  and  half  a  mile  long,  —  a  bit  of  the 
main  bluff  or  bank  standing  alone.  The  top,  as 
you  know,  rises  to  the  general  level  of  the  sur 
rounding  country,  the  river  having  eaten  out  so 
much.  Yet  the  valley  just  above  and  below  this, 
(we  are  at  the  head  of  Lake  Pepin,)  must  be  three 
or  four  miles  wide. 

I  am  not  even  so  well  informed  as  to  the  pro 
gress  of  the  war  as  you  suppose.  I  have  seen  but 
one  Eastern  paper  (that,  by  the  way,  was  the 
Tribune)  for  five  weeks.  I  have  not  taken  much 
pains  to  get  them  ;  but,  necessarily,  I  have  not 
seen  any  paper  at  all  for  more  than  a  week  at  a 
time.  The  people  of  Minnesota  have  seemed  to 
me  more  cold,  —  to  feel  less  implicated  in  this  war 
than  the  people  of  Massachusetts.  It  is  apparent 
that  Massachusetts,  for  one  State  at  least,  is  doing 
much  more  than  her  share  in  carrying  it  on. 
However,  I  have  dealt  partly  with  those  of  South 
ern  birth,  and  have  seen  but  little  way  beneath 
the  surface.  I  was  glad  to  be  told  yesterday  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  weeping  here  at  Red 
wing  the  other  day,  when  the  volunteers  stationed 
at  Fort  Snelling  followed  the  regulars  to  the 
seat  of  the  war.  They  do  not  weep  when  their 
children  go  up  the  river  to  occupy  the  deserted 
forts,  though  they  may  have  to  fight  the  Indians 
there. 


200  LETTERS. 

I  ao  not  even  know  what  the  attitude  of  Eng 
land  is  at  present. 

The  grand  feature  hereabouts  is,  of  course,  the 
Mississippi  River.  Too  much  can  hardly  be  said 
of  its  grandeur,  and  of  the  beauty  of  tins  portion 
of  it  (from  Dunleith,  and  probably  from  Rock 
Island  to  this  place).  St.  Paul  is  a  dozen  miles 
below  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony,  or  near  the  head 
of  uninterrupted  navigation  on  the  main  stream, 
about  two  thousand  miles  from  its  mouth.  There 
is  not  a  "  rip  "  below  that,  and  the  river  is  almost 
as'wide  in  the  upper  as  the  lower  part  of  its  course. 
Steamers  go  up  to  the  Sauk  Rapids,  above  the 
Falls,  near  a  hundred  miles  farther,  and  then  you 
are  fairly  in  the  pine-woods  and  lumbering  coun 
try.  Thus  it  flows  from  the  pine  to  the  palm. 

The  lumber,  as  you  know,  is  sawed  chiefly  at 
the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  (what  is  not  rafted  in 
the  log  to  ports  far  below),  having  given  rise  to 
the  towns  of  St.  Anthony,  Minneapolis,  &c.,  &c. 
In  coming  up  the  river  from  Dunleith,  you  meet 
with  great  rafts  of  sawed  lumber  and  of  logs, 
twenty  rods  or  more  in  length,  by  five  or  six  wide, 
floating  down,  all  from  the  pine  region  above  the 
Falls.  An  old  Maine  lumberer,  who  has  followed 
the  same  business  here,  tells  me  that  the  sources  of 
the  Mississippi  were  comparatively  free  from  rocks 
and  rapids,  making  easy  work  for  them ;  but  he 
thought  that  the  timber  was  more  knotty  here  than 
in  Maine. 


LETTERS.  201 

It  has  chanced  that  about  half  the  men  whom  I 
have  spoken  with  in  Minnesota,  whether  travellers 
or  settlers,  were  from  Massachusetts. 

After  spending  some  three  weeks  in  and  about 
St.  Paul,  St.  Anthony,  and  Minneapolis,  we  made 
an  excursion  in  a  steamer  some  three  hundred  or 
more  miles  up  the  Minnesota  (St.  Peter's)  River, 
to  Redwood,  or  the  Lower  Sioux  Agency,  in  order 
to  see  the  plains,  and  the  Sioux,  who  were  to  re 
ceive  their  annual  payment  there.  This  is  emi 
nently  the  river  of  Minnesota,  (for  she  shares  the 
Mississippi  with  Wisconsin,)  and  it  is  of  incalcu 
lable  value  to  her.  It  flows  through  a  very  fertile 
country,  destined  to  be  famous  for  its  wheat ;  but 
it  is  a  remarkably  winding  stream,  so  that  Red 
wood  is  only  half  as  far  from  its  mouth  by  land  as 
by  water.  There  was  not  a  straight  reach  a  mile 
in  length  as  far  as  we  went,  —  generally  you  could 
not  see  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  water,  and  the  boat 
was  steadily  turning  this  way  or  that.  At  the 
greater  bends,  as  the  Traverse  des  Sioux,  some  of 
the  passengers  were  landed,  and  walked  across  to 
be  taken  in  on  the  other  side.  Two  or  three  times 
you  could  have  thrown  a  stone  across  the  neck 
of  the  isthmus,  while  it  was  from  one  to  three 
miles  around  it.  It  was  a  very  novel  kind  of 
navigation  to  me.  The  boat  was  perhaps  the 
largest  that  had  been  up  so  high,  and  the  water 
was  rather  low  (it  had  been  about  fifteen  feet 
higher).  In  making  a  short  turn,  we  repeatedly 
9* 


202  LETTERS. 

and  designedly  ran  square  into  the  steep  and  soft 
bank,  taking  in  a  cart-load  of  earth,  —  this  being 
more  effectual  than  the  rudder  to  fetch  us  about 
again ;  or  the  deeper  water  was  so  narrow  and 
close  to  the  shore,  that  we  were  obliged  to  run 
into  and  break  down  at  least  fifty  trees  which 
overhung  the  water,  when  we  did  not  cut  them 
off,  repeatedly  losing  a  part  of  our  outworks, 
though  the  most  exposed  had  been  taken  in.  I 
could  pluck  almost  any  plant  on  the  bank  from 
the  boat.  We  very  frequently  got  aground,  and 
then  drew  ourselves  along  with  a  windlass  and 
a  cable  fastened  to  a  tree,  or  we  swung  round  in 
the  current,  and  completely  blocked  up  and  block 
aded  the  river,  one  end  of  the  boat  resting  on  each 
shore.  And  yet  we  would  haul  ourselves  round 
again  with  the  windlass  and  cable  in  an  hour  or 
two,  though  the  boat  was  about  one  hundred  and 
sixty  feet  long,  and  drew  some  three  feet  of  water, 
or,  often,  water  and  sand.  It  was  one  consolation 
to  know  that  in  such  a  case  we  were  all  the  while 
damming  the  river,  and  so  raising  it.  We  once 
ran  fairly  on  to  a  concealed  rock,  with  a  shock 
that  aroused  all  the  passengers,  and  rested  there, 
and  the  mate  went  below  with  a  lamp,  expecting 
to  find  a  hole,  but  he  did  not.  Snags  and  saw 
yers  were  so  common  that  I  forgot  to  mention 
them.  The  sound  of  the  boat  rumbling  over  one 
was  the  ordinary  music.  However,  as  long  as  the 
boiler  did  not  burst,  we  knew  that  no  serious  ac- 


LETTERS.  203 

cident  was  likely  to  happen.  Yet  this  was  a 
singularly  navigable  river,  more  so  than  the  Mis 
sissippi  above  the  Falls,  and  it  is  owing  to  its  very 
crookedness.  Ditch  it  straight,  and  it  would  not 
only  be  very  swift,  but  soon  run  out.  It  was  from 
ten  to  fifteen  rods  wide  near  the  mouth,  and  from 
eight  to  ten  or  twelve  at  Redwood.  Though  the 
current  was  swift,  I  did  not  see  a  "  rip  "  on  it,  and 
only  three  or  four  rocks.  For  three  months  in  the 
year,  I  am  told  that  it  can  be  navigated  by  small 
steamers  about  twice  as  far  as  we  went,  or  to 
its  source  in  Big  Stone  Lake ;  and  a  former 
Indian  agent  told  me  that  at  high  water  it  was 
thought  that  such  a  steamer  might  pass  into  the 
Red  River. 

In  short,  this  river  proved  so  very  long  and 
navigable,  that  I  was  reminded  of  the  last  letter 
or  two  in  the  voyage  of  the  Baron  la  Hontan 
(written  near  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
I  thinlc),  in  which  he  states,  that,  after  reaching 
the  Mississippi  (by  the  Illinois  or  Wisconsin),  the 
limit  of  previous  exploration  westward,  he  voyaged 
up  it  with  his  Indians,  and  at  length  turned  up  a 
great  river  coming  in  from  the  west,  which  he 
called  "  La  Riviere  Longue  "  ;  and  he  relates 
various  improbable  things  about  the  country  and 
its  inhabitants,  so  that  this  letter  has  been  regard 
ed  as  pure  fiction,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  a 
lie.  But  I  am  somewhat  inclined  now  to  recon 
sider  the  matter. 


204  LETTERS. 

The  Governor  of  Minnesota  (Ramsay),  the 
superintendent  of  Indian  affairs  in  this  quarter, 
and  the  newly-appointed  Indian  agent  were  on 
board  ;  also  a  German  band  from  St.  Paul,  a  small 
cannon  for  salutes,  and  the  money  for  the  Indians 
(ay,  and  the  gamblers,  it  was  said,  who  were  to 
bring  it  back  in  another  boat).  There  were 
about  one  hundred  passengers,  chiefly  from  St. 
Paul,  and  more  or  less  recently  from  the  North 
eastern  States ;  also  half  a  dozen  young  educated 
Englishmen.  Chancing  to  speak  with  one  who 
sat  next  to  me,  when  the  voyage  was  nearly  half 
over,  I  found  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  Rev. 
Samuel  May,  and  a  classmate  of  yours,  and  had 
been  looking  for  us  at  St.  Anthony. 

The  last  of  the  little  settlements  on  the  river 
was  New  Ulm,  about  one  hundred  miles  this  side 
of  Redwood.  It  consists  wholly  of  Germans. 
We  left  them  one  hundred  barrels  of  salt,  which 
will  be  worth  something  more  when  the  water  is 
lowest  than  at  present. 

Redwood  is  a  mere  locality,  —  scarcely  an  In 
dian  village,  —  where  there  is  a  store,  and  some 
houses  have  been  built  for  them.  We  were  now 
fairly  on  the  great  plains,  and  looking  south ; 
and,  after  walking  that  way  three  miles,  could 
see  no  tree  in  that  horizon.  The  buffalo  was 
said  to  be  feeding  within  twenty-five  or  thirty 
miles. 

A  regular  council  was  held  with  the  Indians, 


LETTERS.  205 

who  had  come  in  on  their  ponies,  and  speeches 
were  made  on  both  sides  through  an  interpreter, 
quite  in  the  described  mode,  —  the  Indians,  as 
usual,  having  the  advantage  in  point  of  truth  and 
earnestness,  and  therefore  of  eloquence. 

The  most  prominent  chief  was  named  Little 
Crow.  They  were  quite  dissatisfied  with  the  white 
man's  treatment  of  them,  and  probably  have  rea 
son  to  be  so.  This  council  was  to  be  continued 
for  two  or  three  days,  —  the  payment  to  be  made 
the  second  day ;  and  another  payment  to  other 
bands  a  little  higher  up,  on  the  Yellow  Medicine 
(a  tributary  of  the  Minnesota),  a  few  days  there 
after. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  half-naked  Indians  per 
formed  a  dance,  at  the  request  of  the  Governor, 
for  our  amusement  and  their  own  benefit ;  and 
then  we  took  leave  of  them,  and  of  the  officials 
who  had  come  to  treat  with  them. 

Excuse  these  pencil  marks,  but  my  inkstand  is 
unscrewdble,  and  I  can  only  direct  my  letter  at  the 
bar.  I  could  tell  you  more,  and  perhaps  more  in 
teresting  things,  if  I  had  time. 

I  am  considerably  better  than  when  I  left  home, 
but  still  far  from  well. 

Our  faces  are  already  set  toward  home.  Will 
you  please  let  my  sister  know  that  we  shall  prob 
ably  start  for  Milwaukee  and  Mackinaw  in  a  day 
or  two  (or  as  soon  as  we  hear  from  home)  via 
Prairie  du  Chien,  and  not  La  Crosse. 


206  LETTERS. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  written  to 
Cholmondoley,  as  it  relieves  me  of  some  respon 
sibility. 

Yours  truly, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU. 


TO  MR.  M.  B.  B. 

CONCORD,  March  21,  1862. 

DEAR  SIR  :  — 

I  thank  you  for  your  very  kind  letter,  which, 
ever  since  I  received  it,  I  have  intended  to  answer 
before  I  died,  however  briefly.  I  am  encouraged 
to  know,  that,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  I  have 
not  written  my  books  in  vain.  I  was  particularly 
gratified,  some  years  ago,  when  one  of  my  friends 
and  neighbors  said,  "  I  wish  you  would  write  an 
other  book,  —  write  it  for  me."  He  is  actually 
more  familiar  with  what  I  have  written  than  I  am 
myself. 

The  verses  you  refer  to  in  Conway's  Dial,  were 
written  by  F.  B.  Sanborn  of  this  town.  I  never 
wrote  for  that  journal. 

I  am  pleased  when  you  say  that  in  "  The  Week  " 
you  like  especially  "  those  little  snatches  of  poetry 
interspersed  through  the  book,"  for  these,  I  sup 
pose,  are  the  least  attractive  to  most  readers.  I 
have  not  been  engaged  in  any  particular  work  on 


LETTERS.  207 

Botany,  or  the  like,  though,  if  I  were  to  live,  I 
should  have  much  to  report  on  Natural  History 
generally. 

You  ask  particularly  after  my  health.  I  sup 
pose  that  I  have  not  many  months  to  live ;  but, 
of  course,  I  know  nothing  about  .it.  I  may  add 
that  I  am  enjoying  existence  as  much  as  ever,  and 
regret  nothing. 

Yours  truly, 

HENRY  D.  THOREAU, 
by  SOPHIA  E.  THOREAU. 


POEMS. 


SYMPATHY. 

LATELY,  alas !  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 
Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 
As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 
But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  stronghold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 
That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within ; 
For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious, 
With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 
Himself  a  kingdom,  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory, 
When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord  ; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see, 
But  all  were  parcel  of  their  noble  lord. 


212  POEMS. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtle  haze  of  summer, 
That  stilly  shows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eyes, 
And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess ; 

Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  have  loved  him,  had  I  loved  him  less. 

Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 
A  stern  respect  withheld  us  farther  yet, 
So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach, 
And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive ; 
And  what  avails  it,  now  that  we  are  wise, 
If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive  ? 


Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat ; 
But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone, 
In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 
And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 


POEMS.  213 

The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 
For  elegy  has  other  subject  none ; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 
Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy ; 

With  fitting  strain  resound,  ye  woods  and  fields ; 

Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 


Is 't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair  ? 
Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  has  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 
But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 
Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 
Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 
Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 


214  POEMS. 


ROMANS,   COUNTRYMEN,   AND 
LOVERS." 

LET  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We  '11  one  another  treat  like  gods, 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 

Two  solitary  stars,  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll ; 
But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole. 


POEMS.  215 

What  need  confound  the  sphere,  — 

Love  can  afford  to  wait ; 

For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 

That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end, 

Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend. 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 
More  than  the  tints  of  flowers ; 
Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  its  bequest. 

No  speech,  though  kind,  has  it ; 
But  kinder  silence  doles 
Unto  its  mates : 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue  ? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear  ? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year, 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns  ; 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words, 


216  POEMS. 

Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  foeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine, 
Who  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in  : 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win, 
And  shine  alono;  the  wall. 

O 

There 's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 
And  every  height  above. 

It  waits,  as  waits  the  sky, 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day, 
Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 


POEMS.  217 


Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teased 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 


10 


218  POEMS. 


INSPIRATION. 

IF  with  light  head  erect  I  sing, 

Though^ all  the  Muses  lend  their  force. 

From  my  poor  love  of  anything, 

The  verse  is  weak  and  shallow  as  its  source. 

But  if  with  bended  neck  I  grope 

Listening  behind  me  for  my  wit, 

With  faith  superior  to  hope, 

More  anxious  to  keep  back  than  forward  it ; 

Making  my  soul  accomplice  there 

Unto  the  flame  my  heart  hath  lit, 

Then  will  the  verse  forever  wear,  — 

Time  cannot  bend  the  line  which  God  has  writ. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before  ; 

I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 


POEMS.  219 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life, 

Of  manhood's  strength  it  is  the  flower, 

'T  is  peace's  end,  and  war's  beginning  strife. 

It  comes  in  summer's  broadest  noon, 
By  a  gray  wall,  or  some  chance  place, 
Unseasoning  time,  insulting  June, 
And  vexing  day  with  its  presuming  face. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold 
Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young,  'and  wooes  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 


220  POEMS. 


THE  FISHER'S   BOY. 

MY  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 
As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go ; 

My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 
Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  Ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore  : 

They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea  ; 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view  ; 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 


POEMS.  221 


MOUNTAINS. 

WITH  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock,  and  the  Peterboro  hills ; 

Like  some  vast  fleet 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat ; 

Still  holding  to  your  high  emprise, 

Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies ; 

Not  skulking  close  to  land, 

With  cargo  contraband  ; 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 

Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 

Ye  to  the  westward  run, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail, 


222  POEMS. 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold  ; 

I  seem  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here,  — 

Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 

And  breadth  of  beam  and  length  of  running  gear. 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  Western  leisure ; 

So  cool  your  brows,  and  freshly  blue, 

As  time  had  nought  for  ye  to  do ; 

For  ye  lie  at  your  length, 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primaeval  timber 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber ; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 

One  day  to  be  our  Western  trade, 

Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 

Which  through  the  seas  of  space  is  hurled. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray, 
Ye  still  o'ertop  the  Western  day, 
Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft, 
Like  solid  stacks  of  hay. 
Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 
The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 
And  with  fresh  depth  of  amber  light 


POEMS.  223 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 

That  even  heaven  seems  extravagant. 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  defiles  windeth  the  way  to  heaven  ; 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page, 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age ; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought, 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought, 

From  your  remotest  vale. 

But  special  I  remember  thee, 
Wachusett !  who,  like  me, 
Standest  alone  without  society. 
Thy  far  blue  eye, 
A  remnant  of  the  sky, 
Seen  through  the  clearing  of  the  gorge, 
Or  from  the  windows  on  the  forge, 
Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 
Nothing  is  true, 


224  POEMS. 

But  stands  "'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer, 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven, 

And  can'st  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air ; 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth, 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother ! 


POEMS.  225 


SMOKE. 

LIGHT-WIXGED  Smoke  !   Icarian  bird, 
Melting  thy  pinions  in  thy  upward  flight ; 
Lark  without  song,  and  messenger  of  dawn, 
Circling  above  the  hamlets  as  thy  nest ; 
Or  else,  departing  dream,  and  shadowy  form 
Of  midnight  vision,  gathering  up  thy  skirts ; 
By  night  star-veiling,  and  by  day 
Darkening  the  light  and  blotting  out  the  sun ; 
Go  thou,  my  incense,  upward  from  this  hearth, 
And  ask  the  gods  to  pardon  this  clear  flame. 


226  POEMS. 


SMOKE  IN  WINTER. 

•"£.;;""*  t.  - 

THE  sluggish  smoke  curls  up  from  some  deep  dell, 
The  stiffened  air  exploring  in  the  dawn, 
And  making  slow  acquaintance  with  the  day ; 
Delaying  now  upon  its  heavenward  course, 
In  wreathed  loiterings  dallying  with  itself, 
With  as  uncertain  purpose  and  slow  deed, 
As  its  half-wakened  master  by  the  hearth, 
Whose  mind,  still  slumbering,  and  sluggish  thoughts 
Have  not  yet  swept  into  the  onward  current 
Of  the  new  day ;  —  and  now  it  streams  afar, 
The  while  the  chopper  goes  with  step  direct, 
And  mind  intent  to  wield  the  early  axe. 

First  in  the  dusky  dawn  he  sends  abroad 
His  early  scout,  his  emissary,  smoke, 
The  earliest,  latest  pilgrim  from  his  roof, 
To  feel  the  frosty  air,  inform  the  day ; 
And,  while  he  crouches  still  beside  the  hearth, 
Nor  musters  courage  to  unbar  the  door, 


POEMS.  227 

It  has  gone  down  the  glen  with  the  light  wind, 
And  o'er  the  plain  unfurled  its  venturous  wreath, 
Draped  the  tree-tops,  loitered  upon  the  hill, 
And  warmed  the  pinions  of  the  early  bird ; 
And  now,  perchance,  high  in  the  crispy  air, 
Has  caught  sight  of  the  day  o'er  the  earth's  edge, 
And  greets  its  master's  eye  at  his  low  door, 
As  some  refulgent  cloud  in  the  upper  sky. 

7 


228  POEMS. 


MIST. 

LOW-ANCHORED  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream-drapery, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays  ; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades  ; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers,  — 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields. 


POEMS.  229 


HAZE. 

WOOF  of  the  fen,  ethereal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye  ; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas  ; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged, 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  song, 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :    Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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